THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 

From  the  collection  of 
Julius  Doerner,  Chicago 
Purchased,  1918. 

623 

D55o 

cop.4 


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University  of  Illinois  Library 


JAN  0 2 I5«8 

JAN  03  1183 


:Jv 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  Or  ILLINOIS 


LITTLE  NELL  AND  HER  GRANDFATHER. 


THE 


OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP 

AND 

REPRINTED  PIECES. 

By  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


WITH  ORIGINAL  ILLUSTRATIONS 
By  S.  EYTINGE,  Jr. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  & Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  & Co. 

1875. 


Gad's  Hill  Place,  Hick  am  by  Rochester,  Kent, 
Second  April,  1867. 

By  a special  arrangement  made  with  me  and  my  English  Publishers  (partners  * 
with  me  in  the  copyright  of  my  works),  Messrs.  Ticknor  and  Fields,  of  Boston, 
have  become  the  only  authorized  representatives  in  America  of  the  whole  series 
of  my  books. 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 
TICKNOR  AND  FIELDS, 

in  die  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


University  Press  : Welch,  Bigelow,  & Co., 
Cambridge. 


<27  X7  C/ct-vx. 


^3 

G^-,4*'  ' 

CONTENTS. 


FACE 

The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  . 7- 3*9 

Reprinted  Pieces  : — 

The  Long  Voyage 323 

The  Begging- Letter  Writer 328 

A Child's  Dream  of  a Star 333 

Our  English  Watering-Place 335 

Our  French  Watering-Place 340 

Bill-Sticking 348 

“ Births.  Mrs.  Meek,  of  a Son  ” 355 

Lying  Awake 358 

The  Poor  Relation's  Story  . 362 

The  Child’s  Story 368 

The  School-boy’s  Story 370 

Nobody’s  Story 376 

The  Ghost  of  Art 379 

Out  of  Town 383 

Out  of  the  Season 387 

A Poor  Man’s  Tale  of  a Patent 392 

The  Noble  Savage 395 

A Flight 399 

The  Detective  Police 405 

Three  44  Detective  ” Anecdotes  .........  416 

On  Duty  with  Inspector  Field 421 

Down  with  the  Tide 429 

A Walk  in  a Workhouse 434 

Prince  Bull.  A Fairy  Tale 439 


637730 


CONTENTS. 


A Plated  Article 442 

Our  Honorable  Friend 448 

Our  School 451 

Our  Vestry 456 

Our  Bore 460 

A Monument  of  French  Folly 464 

A Christmas  Tree  . . . . 471 

. C i • - i.  KJ 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

[Engraved  under  the  superintendence  of  A.  V.  S.  Anthony.] 

I.  Little  Nell  and  her  Grandfather  ....  Frontispiece 
II.  Quilp,  Mrs.  Quilp,  and  Mrs.  Jiniwin  ....  Page  30 

III.  Quilp’s  Boy 34 

IV.  Kit,  his  Mother,  Jacob,  and  the  Baby 55 

V.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garland  and  Whisker 71 

VI.  Codlin  and  Short .84 

VII.  The  Schoolmaster  ...  112 

VIII.  Mrs.  Jarley _ 129 

IX.  Sampson  and  Sally  Brass 

X.  “The  Single  Gentleman” 163. 

XI.  Mr.  Chuckster 241 

XII.  Dick  Swiveller  and  the  Marchioness 249 

XIII.  The  Long  Voyage  . 327 

XIV.  Old  Cheeseman 374 

XV.  Ghost  of  Art 382 

XVI.  Our  Bore 461 


THE 


OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


IT  y 


■ '*/  ■ ) ^ : 8 ’ 1 '}  >:■  Tj  rr  : (; 


PREFACE 


♦ — 

• 

In  April,  1840,  I issued  the  first  number  of  a new  weekly  pub- 
lication, price  threepence,  called  Master  Humphrey’s  Clock. 
It  was  intended  to  consist,  for  the  most  part,  of  detached  papers, 
but  was  to  include  one  continuous  story,  to  be  resumed  from  time 
to  time  with  such  indefinite  intervals  between  each  period  of  re- 
sumption as  might  best  accord  with  the  exigencies  and  capabilities 
of  the  proposed  Miscellany. 

The  first  chapter  of  this  tale  appeared  in  the  fourth  number  of 
Master  Humphrey’s  Clock,  when  I had  already  been  made  un- 
easy by  the  desultory  character  of  that  work,  and  when,  I believe, 
my  readers  had  thoroughly  participated  in  the  feeling.  The  com- 
mencement of  a story  was  a great  satisfaction  to  me,  and  I had 
reason  to  believe  that  my  readers  participated  in  this  feeling  too. 
Hence,  being  pledged  to  some  interruptions  and  some  pursuit  of 
the  original  design,  I cheerfully  set  about  disentangling  myself  from 
those  impediments  as  fast  as  I could  ; and  — that  done  — from  that 
time  until  its  completion  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  was  written 
and  published  from  weefc:  to  week,  in  weekly  parts. 

When  the  story  was  finished,  in  order  that  it  might  be  freed  from 
the  encumbrance  of  associations  and  interruptions  with  which  it  had 
no  kind  of  concern,  I caused  the  few  sheets  of  Master  Humphrey’s 
Clock,  which  had  been  printed  in  connection  with  it,  to  be  can- 
celled ; and,  like  the  unfinished  tale  of  the  windy  night  and  the 
notary  in  The  Sentimental  Journey,  they  became  the  property  of 
the  trunkmaker  and  the  butterman.  I was  especially  unwilling,  I 
confess,  to  enrich  those  respectable  trades  with  the  opening  paper 


PREFACE. 


of  the  abandoned  design,  in  which  Master  Humphrey  described 
himself  and  his  manner  of  life.  Though  I now  affect  to  make  the 
confession  philosophically,  as  referring  to  a bygone  emotion,  I am 
conscious  that  my  pen  winces  a little  even  while  I write  these  words. 
But  it  was  done,  and  wisely  done,  and  Master  Humphrey’s  Clock, 
as  originally  constructed,  became  one  of  the  lost  books  of  the  earth, 
— which,  we  all  know,  are  far  more  precious  than  any  that  can  be 
read  for  lc^ve  or  money. 

In  reference  to  the  tale  itself  I desire  to  say  very  little  here. 
The  many  friends  it  won  me,  and  the  many  hearts  it  turned  to  me 
when  they  were  full  of  private  sorrow,  invest  it  with  an  interest 
in  my  mind  which  is  not  a public  one,  and  the  rightful  place  of 
which  appears  to  be  u a more  removed  ground.” 

I will  merely  observe,  therefore,  that,  in  writing  the  book,  I had 
it  always  in  my  fancy  to  surround  the  lonely  figure  of  the  child  with 
grotesque  and  wild  but  not  impossible  companions,  and  to  gather 
about  her  innocent  face  and  pure  intentions  associates  as  strange 
and  uncongenial  as  the  grim  objects  that  are  about  her  bed  when 
her  history  is  first  foreshadowed. 

Master  Humphrey  (before  his  devotion  to  the  trunk  and  butter 
business)  was  originally  supposed  to  be  the  narrator  of  the  story. 
As  it  was  constructed  from  the  beginning,  however,  with  a view  to 
separate  publication  when  completed,  his  demise  did  not  involve  the 
necessity  of  any  alteration. 

I have  a mournful  pride  in  one  recollection  associated  with  “ little 
Nell.”  While  she  was  yet  upon  her  wanderings,  not  then  con- 
cluded, there  appeared  in  a literary  journal  an  essay  of  which  she 
was  the  principal  theme,  so  earnestly,  so  eloquently,  and  tenderly 
appreciative  of  her  and  of  all  her  shadowy  kith  and  kin,  that  it 
would  have  been  insensibility  in  me,  if  I could  have  read  it  without 
an  unusual  glow  of  pleasure  and  encouragement.  Long  afterwards, 
and  when  I had  come  to  know  him  well,  and  to  see  him  stout  of 
heart  going  slowly  down  into  his  grave,  I knew  the  writer  of  that 
essay  to  be  Thomas  Hood. 


THE 


OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Although  I am  an  old  man,  night 
is  generally  my  time  for  walking.  In 
the  summer  I often  leave  home  early  in 
the  morning,  and  roam  about  fields  and 
lanes  all  day,  or  even  escape  for  days 
or  weeks  together ; but,  saving  in  the 
country,  I seldom  go  out  until  after  dark, 
though,  Heaven  be  thanked,  I love  its 
light,  and  feel  the  cheerfulness  it  sheds 
upon  the  earth,  as  much  as  any  creature 
living. 

I have  fallen  insensibly  into  this 
habit,  both  because  it  favors  my  infirm- 
ity, and  because  it  affords  me  greater 
opportunity  of  speculating  on  the  char- 
acters and  occupations  of  those  who 
fill  the  streets.  The  glare  and  hurry  of 
broad  noon  are  not  adapted  to  idle  pur- 
suits like  mine ; a glimpse  of  passing 
faces,  caught  by  the  light  of  a street 
lamp,  or  a shop  window,  is  often  better 
for  my  purpose  than  their  full  revelation 
in  the  daylight ; and,  if  I must  add  the 
truth,  night  is  kinder  in  this  respect 
than  day,  which  too  often  destroys  an 
air-built  castle  at  the  moment  of  its 
completion,  without  the  least  ceremony 
or  remorse. 

That  constant  pacing  to  and  fro,  that 
never-ending  restlessness,  that  inces- 
sant tread  of  feet  wearing  the  rough 
stones  smooth  and  glossy,  — is  it  not 
a wonder  how  the  dwellers  in  narrow 
ways  can  bear  to  hear  it ! Think  of  a 
sick  man,  in  such  a place  as  Saint  Mar- 
tin’s Court,  listening  to  the  footsteps, 
and,  in  the  midst  of  pain  and  weariness, 
obliged,  despite  himself  (as  though  it 
were  a task  he  must  perform),  to  detect 


the  child’s  step  from  the  man’s,  the  slip- 
shod beggar  from  the  booted  exquisite, 
the  lounging  from  the  busy,  the  dull 
heel  of  the  sauntering  outcast  from  the 
quick  tread  of  an  expectant  pleasure- 
seeker, — think  of  the  hum  and  noise 
being  always  present  to  his  senses,  and 
of  the  stream  of  life  that  will  not  stop, 
pouring  on,  on,  on,  through  all  his  rest- 
less dreams,  as  if  he  were  condemned 
to  lie,  dead  but  conscious,  in  a noisy 
churchyard,  and  had  no  hope  of  rest  for 
centuries  to  come  ! 

Then  the  crowds  forever  passing  and 
repassing  on  the  bridges  (on  those  which 
are  free  of  toll  at  least)  where  many 
stop  on  fine  evenings  looking  listlessly 
down  upon  the  water,  with  some  vague 
idea  that  by  and  by  it  runs  between 
green  banks  which  grow  wider  and 
wider  until  at  last  it  joins  the  broad  vast 
sea, — where  some  halt  to  rest  from 
heavy  loads,  and  think,  as  they  look 
over  the  parapet,  that  to  smoke  and 
lounge  away  one’s  life,  and  lie  sleeping 
in  the  sun  upon  a hot  tarpaulin,  in  a 
dull,  slow,  sluggish  barge,  must  be  hap- 
piness unalloyed,  — and  where  some, 
and  a very  different  class,  pause  with 
heavier  loads  than  they,  remembering 
to  have  heard  or  read  in  some  old  time 
that  drowning  was  not  a hard  death, 
but  of  all  means  of  suicide  the  easiest 
and  best. 

Covent  Garden  Market  at  sunrise  too, 
in  the  spring  or  summer,  when  the  fra- 
grance of  sweet  flowers  is  in  the  air, 
overpowering  even  the  unwholesome 
steams  of  last  night’s  debauchery,  and 
driving  the  dusky  thrush,  whose  cage 
has  hung  outside  a garret  window  all 


12 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


night  long,  half  mad  with  joy!  Poor, 
bird  ! the  only  neighboring  thing  at  all 
akin  to  the  other  little  captives,  some 
of  whom,  shrinking  from  the  hot  hands 
of  drunken  purchasers,  lie  drooping  on 
the  path  already,  while  others,  soddened 
by  close  contact,  await  the  time  when 
they  sliall  be  watered  and  freshened  up 
to  please  more  sober  company,  and 
make  old  clerks  who  pass  them  on 
their  road  to  business  wonder  what  has 
filled  their  breasts  with  visions  of  the 
country. 

But  my  present  purpose  is  not  to 
expatiate  upon  my  walks.  The  story  I 
am  about  to  relate  arose  out  of  one 
of  these  rambles ; and  thus  I have 
been  led  to  speak  of  them  by  way  of 
preface. 

One  night  I had  roamed  into  the  city, 
and  was  walking  slowly  on  in  my  usual 
way,  musing  upon  a great  many  things, 
when  I was  arrested  by  an  inquiry  the 
purport  of  which  did  not  reach  me,  but 
which  seemed  to  be  addressed  to  my- 
self, and  was  preferred  in  a soft  sweet 
voice  that  struck  me  very  pleasantly. 
I turned  hastily  round,  and  found  at  my 
elbow  a pretty  little  girl,  who  begged  to 
be  directed  to  a certain  street  at  a con- 
siderable distance,  and  indeed  in  quite 
another  quarter  of  the  town. 

“ It  is  a very  long  way  from  here,” 
said  I,  “ my  child.” 

“ I know  that,  sir,”  she  replied,  tim- 
idly. “ I am  afraid  it  is  a very  long 
way;  for  I came  from  there  to-night.” 

“Alone?”  said  I,  in  some  surprise. 

“ O yes,  I don’t  mind  that,  but  I 
am  a little  frightened  now,  for  I have 
lost  my  road.” 

“And  what  made  you  ask  it  of  me? 
Suppose  I should  tell  you  wrong.” 

“ I am  sure  you  will  not  do  that,” 
said  the  little  creature,  “ you  are  such 
a very  old  gentleman,  and  walk  so  slow 
yourself.” 

I cannot  describe  how  much  I was 
impressed  by  this  appeal,  and  the  en- 
ergy with  which  it  was  made,  which 
brought  a tear  into  the  child’s  clear 
eye,  and  made  her  slight  figure  tremble 
as  she  looked  up  into  my  face. 

“ Come,”  said  I,  “ I ’ll  take  you 
there.” 

She  put  her  hand  in  mine,  as  con- 


fidingly as  if  she  had  known  me  from 
her  cradle,  and  we  trudged  away  to- 
gether,— the  little  creature  accommodat- 
ing her  pace  to  mine,  and  rather  seem- 
ing to  lead  and  take  care  of  me  than  I 
to  be  protecting  her.  . I observed  that 
every  now  and  then  $he  stole  a curious 
look  at  my  face  as  if  to  make  quite 
sure  that  I was  not  deceiving  her,  and 
that  these  glances  (very  sharp  and  keen 
they  were  too)  seemed  to  increase  her 
confidence  at  every  repetition. 

For  my  part,  my  curiosity  and  inter- 
est were,  at  least,  equal  to  the  child’s; 
for  child  she  certainly  was,  although  I 
thought  it  probable  from  what  I could 
make  out,  that  her  very  small  and  deli- 
cate frame  imparted  a peculiar  youth- 
fulness  to  her  appearance.  Though 
more  scantily  attired  than  she  might 
have  been,  she  was  dressed  with  per- 
fect neatness,  and  betrayed  no  marks 
of  poverty  or  neglect. 

“ Who  has  sent  you  so  far  by  your- 
self? ” said  I. 

“ Somebody  who  is  very  kind  to  me, 
sir.” 

“And  what  have  you  been  doing?” 

“That  I must  not  tell,”  said  the 
child. 

There  was  something  in  the  manner 
of  this  reply  which  caused  me  to  look 
at  the  little  creature  with  an  involun- 
tary expression  of  surprise  ; for  I won- 
dered what  kind  of  errand  it  might  be, 
that  occasioned  her  to  be  prepared  for 
questioning.  Her  quick  eye  seemed 
to  read  my  thoughts.  As  it  met  mine, 
she  added  that  there  was  no  harm  in 
what  she  had  been  doing,  but  it  was  a 
great  secret,  — a secret  which  she  did 
not  even  know  herself. 

This  was  said  with  no  appearance  of 
cunning  or  deceit,  but  with  an  unsus- 
picious frankness  that,  bore  the  impress 
of  truth.  She  walked  on,  as  before, 
growing  more  familiar  with  me  as  w^e 
proceeded,  and  talking  cheerfully  by 
the  w ay ; but  she  said  no  more  about 
her  home,  beyond  remarking  that  wfe 
were  going  quite  a new  road,  and  ask- 
ing if  it  were  a short  one. 

While  we  were  thus  engaged,  I re- 
volved in  my  mind  a hundred  differ- 
ent explanations  of  the  riddle,  and  re- 
jected them  every  one.  I really  felt 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


i3 


ashamed  to  take  advantage  of' the  in- 
genuousness or  grateful  feeling  of  the 
child,  for  the  purpose  of  gratifying  my 
curiosity.  I love  these  little  people  ; 
and  it  is  not.  a slight  thing  when  they, 
who  are  so  fresh  from  God,  love  us. 
As  I had  felt  pleased,  at  first,  by  her 
confidence,  I determined  to  deserve  it, 
and  to  do  credit  to  the  nature  which 
had  prompted  her  to  repose  it  in  me. 

There  was  no  reason,  however,  why 
I should  refrain  from  seeing  the  per- 
son who  had  inconsiderately  sent  her 
to  so  great  a distance  by  night  and 
alone ; and,  as  it  was  not  improbable 
that  if  she  found  herself  near  home 
she  might  take  farewell  of  me  and 
deprive  me  of  the  opportunity,  I avoid- 
ed the  most  frequented  ways  and  took 
the  most  intricate.  Thus  it  was  not 
until  we  arrived  in  the  street  itself 
that  she  knew  where  we  were.  Clap- 
ping her  hands  with  pleasure,  and  run- 
ning on  before  me  for  a short  distance, 
my  little  acquaintance  stopped  at  a 
door,  and,  remaining  on  the  step  till  I 
came  up,  knocked  at  it  when  I joined 
her. 

A part  of  this  door  was  of  glass,  un- 
protected by  any  shutter ; which  I did 
not  observe  at  first,  for  all  was  very 
dark  and  silent:  within,  and  I was 
anxious  (as  indeed  the  child  was  also) 
for  an  answer  to  our  summons.  When 
she  had  knocked  twice  or  thrice,  there 
was  a noise  as  if  some  person  were  mov- 
ing inside,  and  at  length  a faint  light 
appeared  through  the  glass,  which,  as 
it  approached  very  slowly,  — the  bearer 
having  to  make  his  way  through  a 
great  many  scattered  articles,  — ena- 
bled me  to  see,  both  what  kind  of  per- 
son it  was  who  advanced,  and  what 
kind  of  place  it  was  through  which  he 
came. 

He  was  a little  old  man  with  long 
gray  hair,  whose  face  and  figure,  as  he 
held  the  light  above  his  head  and 
looked  before  him  as  he  approached, 
I could  plainly  see.  Though  much 
altered  by  age,  I fancied  I could  recog- 
nize in  his  spare  and  slender  form  some- 
thing of  that  delicate  mould  which  I 
had  noticed  in  the  child.  Their  bright 
blue  eyes  were  certainly  alike,  but  his 
face  was  so  deeply  furrowed,  and  so 


very  full  of  care,  that  here  all  resem- 
blance ceased. 

The  place  through  which  he  made  his 
way  at  leisure  was  one  of  those  recepta- 
cles for  old  and  curious  things  which 
seem  to  crouch  in  odd  corners  of  this 
town,  and  to  hide  their  musty  treasures 
from  the  public  eye  in  jealousy  and  dis- 
trust. There  were  suits  of  mail,  stand- 
ing like  ghosts  in  armor,  here  and 
there  ; fantastic  carvings  brought  from 
monkish  cloisters  ; rusty  weapons  of 
various  kinds  ; distorted  figures  in  china 
and  wood  and  iron  and  ivory  ; tapestry 
and  strange  furniture  that  might  have 
been  designed  in  dreams.  The  haggard 
aspect  of  the  little  old  man  was  wonder- 
fully suited  to  the  place.  He  might  have 
groped  among  old  churches  and  tombs 
and  deserted  houses,  and  gathered  all 
the  spoils  with  his  own  hands.  There 
was  nothing  in  the  whole  collection  but 
was  in  keeping  with  himself,  — nothing 
that  looked  older  or  more  worn  than 
he. 

As  he  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  he 
surveyed  me  with  some  astonishment, 
which  was  not  diminished  when  he 
looked  from  me  to  my  companion.  The 
door  being  opened,  the  child  addressed 
him  as  her  grandfather,  and  told  him  the 
little  story  of  our  companionship. 

“ Why,  bless  thee,  child,”  said  the  old 
man,  patting  her  on  the  head,  “ how 
couldst  thou  miss  thy  way  ? What  if  I 
had  lost  thee,  Nell  !” 

“ I would  have  found  my  way  back 
to  you,  grandfather,”  said  the  child, 
boldly;  “never  fear.” 

The  old  man  kissed  her  ; then  turned 
to  me  and  begged  me  to  walk  in.  I did 
so.  The  door  was  closed  and  locked. 
Preceding  me  with  the  light,  he  led 
rfle  through  the  place  I had  already 
seen  from  without  into  a small  sitting- 
room  behind,  in  which  was  another  door 
opening  into  a kind  of  closet,  where  I 
saw  a little  bed  that  a fairy  might  have 
slept  in,  it  looked  so  very  small  and 
was  so  prettily  arranged.  The  child 
took  a candle  and  tripped  into  this  lit- 
tle room,  leaving  the  old  man  and  me 
together. 

“ You  must  be  tired,  sir,”  said  he  as 
he  placed  a chair  near  the  fire  ; “ how 
• can  I thank  you? ” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


i4 

“ By  taking  more  care  of  your  grand- 
child another  time,  my  good  friend,” 

I replied. 

“ More  care  ! ” said  the  old  man  in 
a shrill  voice,  — “more  care  of  Nelly  ! 
Why,  who  ever  loved  a child  as  I love 
Nell?” 

He  said  this  with  such  evident  sur- 
prise that  I was  perplexed  what  answer 
to  make  ; the  more  so  because,  coupled 
with  something  feeble  and  wandering 
in  his  manner,  there  were  in  his  face 
marks  of  deep  and  anxious  thought, 
which  convinced  me  that  he  could  not 
be,  as  I had  been  at  first  inclined  to  sup- 
pose, in  a state  of  dotage  or  imbecility. 

“I  don’t  think  you  consider — ”1 
began. 

“ 1 don’t  consider ! ” cried  the  old 
man,  interrupting  me,  — “I  don’t  con- 
sider her  ! Ah,  how  little  you  know  of 
the  truth  ! Little  Nelly,  little  Nelly  ! ” 

It  would  be  impossible  for  any  man 
— I care  not  what  his  form  of  speech 
might  be  — to  express  more  affection 
than  the  dealer  in  curiosities  did  in 
these  four  words.  I waited  for  him  to 
speak  again,  but  he  rested  his  chin  upon 
his  hand,  and,  shaking  his  head  twice  or 
thrice,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  fire. 

While  we  were  sitting  thus  in  silence, 
the  door  of  the  closet  opened,  and  the 
child  returned  ; her  light  brown  hair 
hanging  loose  about  her  neck,  and  her 
face  flushed  with  the  haste  she  had 
made  to  rejoin  us.  She  busied  her- 
self, immediately,  in  preparing  supper. 
While  she  was  thus  engaged  I remarked 
that  the  old  man  took  an  opportunity  of 
observing  me  more  closely  than  he  had 
done  yet.  I was  surprised  to  see  that, 
all  this  time,  everything  was  done  by  the 
child,  and  that  there  appeared  to  be  no 
other  persons  but  ourselves  in  the  house. 
I took  advantage  of  a moment  when  she 
W'as  absent  to  venture  a hint  on  this 
point,  to  which  the  old  man  replied  that 
there  were  few  grown  persons  as  trust- 
worthy or  as  careful  as  she. 

“ It  always  grieves  me,”  I observed, 
roused  by  what  I took  to  be  his  selfish- 
ness, — “ it  always  grieves  me  to  con- 
template the  initiation  of  children  into 
the  ways  of  life  when  they  are  scarcely 
more  than  infants.  It  checks  their  con- 
fidence and  simplicity,  — two  of  the  best. 


ualities  that  Heaven  gives  them,  — and 
emands  that  they  share  our  sorrows 
before  they  are  capable  of  entering  into 
our  enjoyments.” 

“ It  will  never  check  hers,”  said  the 
old  man,  looking  steadily  at  me:  “the 
springs  are  too  deep.  Besides,  the  chil- 
dren of  the  poor  know  but  few  pleasures. 
Even  the  cheap  delights  of  childhood 
must  be  bought  and  paid  for.” 

“But  — forgive  me  for  saying  this 
— you  are  surely  not  so  very  poor,” 
said  I. 

“ She  is  not  my  child,  sir,”  returned 
the  old  man.  “ Her  mother  was,  and 
she  was  poor.  I save  nothing, — not 
a penny,  — though  I live  as  you  see, 
but”  — he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm 
and  leant  forward  to  whisper — “she 
shall  be  rich  one  of  these  days,  and  a 
fine  lady.  Don’t  you  think  ill  of  me, 
because  I use  her  help.  She  gives  it 
cheerfully  as  you  see,  and  it  would 
break  her  heart  if  she  knew  that  I suf- 
fered anybody  else  to  do  for  me  what 
her  little  hands  could  undertake.  I 
don’t  consider ! ” he  cried  with  sudden 
querulousness  ; “ why,  God  knows  that 
this  one  child  is  the  thought  and  object 
of  my  life,  and  yet  he  never  prospers 
me,  — no,  never ! ” 

At  this  juncture,  the  subject  of  our 
conversation  again  returned ; and  the 
old  man,  motioning  to  me  to  approach 
the  table,  broke  off,  and  said  no  more. 

We  had  scarcely  begun  our  repast 
when  there  was  a knock  at  the  door  by 
which  I had  entered ; and  Nell,  burst- 
ing into  a hearty  laugh,  which  I was 
rejoiced  to  hear,  for  it  was  childlike 
and  full  of  hilarity,  said  it  was,  no 
doubt,  dear  old  Kit  come  back  at 
last. 

“ Foolish  Nell  ! ” said  the  old  man, 
fondling  with  her  hair.  “ She  always 
laughs  at  poor  Kit.” 

The  child  laughed  again  more  heart- 
ily than  before,  and  I could  not  help 
smiling  from  pure  sympathy.  The 
little  old  man  took  up  a candle  and 
went  to  open  the  door.  When  he 
came  back,  Kit  was  at  his  heels. 

Kit  was  a shock-headed,  shambling, 
awkward  lad,  with  an  uncommonly  wide 
mouth,  very  red  cheeks,  a turned-up 
nose,  and  certainly  the  most  comical  ex- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


*5 


presslon  of  face  I ever  saw.  He  stopped 
short  at  the  door  on  seeing  a stranger, 
twirled  in  his  hand  a perfectly  round 
old  hat  without  any  vestige  of  a brim, 
and,  resting  himself  now  on  one  leg, 
and  now  on  the  other,  and  changing 
them  constantly,  stood  in  the  doorway, 
looking  into  the  parlor  with  the  most 
extraordinary  leer  I ever  beheld.  I 
entertained  a grateful  feeling  towards 
the  boy  from  that  minute,  for  I felt 
that  he  was  the  comedy  of  the  child’s 
life.  . / 

“A  long  way,  wasn’t  it,  Kit?”  said 
the  little  old  man. 

“ Why,  then,  it  was  a goodish  stretch, 
master,”  returned  Kit. 

“ Did  you  find  the  house  easily?  ” 

“Why,  then,  not  over  and  above 
easy,  master,”  said  Kit. 

“ Of  course  you  have  come  back  hun- 
gry?” 

“Why,  then,  I do  consider  myself 
rather  so,  master,”  was  the  answer. 

The  lad  had  a remarkable  manner  of 
standing  sideways  as  he  spoke,  and 
thrusting  his  head  forward  over  his 
shoulder,  as  if  he  could  not  get  at  his 
voice  without  that  accompanying  ac- 
tion. I think  he  would  have  amused 
one  anywhere,  but  the  child’s  exquisite 
enjoyment  of  his  oddity,  and  the  relief 
it  was  to  find  that  there  was  something 
she  associated  with  merriment,  in  a 
place  that  appeared  so  unsuited  to  her, 
were  quite  irresistible.  It  was  a great 
point,  too,  that  Kit  himself  was  flat- 
tered by  the  sensation  he  created,  and 
after  several  efforts  to  preserve  his 
gravity,  burst  into  a loud  roar,  and 
so  stood  with  his  mouth  wide  open 
and  his  eyes  nearly  shut,  laughing  vio- 
lently. 

The  old  man  had  again  relapsed  into 
his  former  abstraction  and  took  no 
notice  of  what  passed ; but  I remarked 
that,  when  her  laugh  was  over,  the 
child’s  bright  eyes  were  dimmed  with 
tears,  called  forth  by  the  fulness  of 
heart  with  which  she  welcomed  her  un- 
couth favorite  after  the  little  anxiety  of 
the  night.  As  for  Kit  himself  (whose 
laugh  had  been  all  the  time  one  of  that 
sort  which  very  little  would  change  into 
a cry)  he  carried  a large  slice  of  bread 
and  meat  and  a mug  of  beer  into  a 


corner,  and  applied  himself  to  dispos- 
ing of  them  with  great  voracity. 

“Ah  ! ” said  the  old  man,  turning  to 
me  with  a sigh  as  if  I had  spoken  to 
him  but  that  moment,  “you  don’t  know 
what  you  say,  when  you  tell  me  that  I 
don’t  consider  her.” 

“ You  must  not  attach  too  great 
weight  to  a remark  founded  on  first 
appearances,  my  friend,”  said  I. 

“ No,”  returned  the  old  man  thought- 
fully,— “no.  Come  hither,  Nell.” 

The  little  girl  hastened  from  her  seat, 
and  put  her  arm  about  his  neck. 

“Do  I love  thee,  Nell?”  said  he. 
“ Say,  — do  I love  thee,  Nell,  or  no  ? ” 

The  child  only  answered  by  her 
caresses,  and  laid  her  head  upon  his 
breast. 

“ Why  dost  thou  sob,”  said  the  grand- 
father, pressing  her  closer  to  him  and 
glancing  towards  me.  “ Is  it  because 
thou  know’st  I love  thee,  and  dost  not 
like  that  I should  seem  to  doubt  it  by 
my  question?  Well,  well;  then  let  ua 
say  I love  thee  dearly.” 

“Indeed,  indeed  you  do,”  replied 
the  child  with  great  earnestness  ; “ Kit 
knows  you  do.” 

Kit,  who,  in  despatching  his  bread 
and  meat,  had  been  swallowing  two 
thirds  of  his  knife  at  every  mouthful 
with  the  coolness  of  a juggler,  stopped 
short  in  his  operations  on  being  thus 
appealed  to,  and  bawled,  “ Nobody  is  n’t 
such  a fool  as  to  say  he  doos  n’t”  ; af-> 
ter  which  he  incapacitated  himself  for 
further  conversation  by  taking  a most; 
prodigious  sandwich  at  one  bite. 

“ She  is  poor  now,”  said  the  old  man, 
patting  the  child’s  cheek  ; “ but,  I say 
again,  the  time  is  coming  when  she 
shall  be  rich.  It  has  been  a long  time 
coming,  but  it  must  come  at  last ; a 
very  long  time,  but  it  surely  must  come. 
It  has  come  to  other  men  who  do  noth- 
ing but  waste  and  riot.  When  will  it 
come  to  me  ! ” 

“ I am  very  happy  as  I am,  grand- 
father,” said  the  child. 

“ Tush,  tush  ! ” returned  the  old 
man,  “thou  dost  not  know, — how 
shouldst  thou  ! ” Then  he  muttered 
again  between  his  teeth,  “ The  time 
must  come,  I am  very  sure  it  must.  It 
will  be  all  the  better  for  coming  late  ” ; 


i6 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


and  then  he  sighed  and  fell  into  his  for- 
mer musing  state,  and,  still  holding  the 
child  between  his  knees,  appeared  to 
be  insensible  to  everything  around  him. 
By  this  time  it  wanted  but  a few  min- 
utes of  midnight,  and  I rose  to  go  : 
which  recalled  him  to  himself. 

“ One  moment,  sir,”  he  said.  “ Now, 
Kit,  near  midnight,  boy,  and  you  still 
here ! Get  home,  get  home,  and  be 
true  to  your  time  in  the  morning,  for 
there  ’s  work  to  do.  Good  night  ! 
There,  bid  him  good  night,  Nell,  and 
let  him  be  gone  ! ” 

“Good  night,  Kit,”  said  the'  child, 
her  eyes  lighting  up  with  merriment 
and  kindness. 

“ Good  night,  Miss  Nell,”  returned 
the  boy. 

“And  thank  this  gentleman,”  inter- 
posed the  old  man,  “ but  for  whose 
care  I might  have  lost  my  little  girl  to- 
night.” 

“No,  no,  master,”  said  Kit;  “that 
won’t  do,  that  won’t.” 

“ What  do  you  mean?  ” cried  the  old 
man. 

“/’dhave  found  her,  master,”  said 
Kit,  — “1  ’d  have  found  her.  I ’d  bet 
that  I ’d  find  her  if  she  was  above 
ground.  I would,  as  quick  as  anybody, 
master  ! Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ” 

Once  more  opening  his  mouth  and 
shutting  his  eyes,  and  laughing  like  a 
stentor,  Kit  gradually  backed  to  the 
door,  and  roared  himself  out. 

Free  of  the  room,  the  boy  was  not 
slow  in  taking  his  departure.  When  he 
had  gone,  and  the  child  was  occupied 
in  clearing  the  table,  the  old  man  said,  — 

“ I have  n’t  seemed  to  thank  you,  sir, 
« enough  for  what  you  have  done  to-night ; 
but  I do  thank  you,  humbly  and  heart- 
ily ; and  so  does  she  ; and  her  thanks 
are  better  worth  than  mine.  I should 
be  sorry  that  you  went  away  and 
thought  I was  unmindful  of  your  good- 
ness, or  careless  of  her : I am  not  in- 
deed.” 

I was  sure  of  that,  I said,  from  what 
I had  seen.  “ But,”  I added,  “ may  I 
ask  you  a question  ? ” 

“ Ay,  sir,”  replied  the  old  man,  “what 
is  it  ? ” 

“This  delicate  child,”  said  I,  “with 
so  much  beauty  and  intelligence,  — has 


she  nobody  to  care  for  her  but  you? 
Has  she  no  other  companion  or  ad- 
viser?” 

“ No,”  he  returned,  looking  anxiously 
in  my  face,  — “no,  and  she  wants  no 
other.” 

“ But  are  you  not  fearful,”  said  I, 
“ that  you  may  misunderstand  a charge 
so  tender  ? I am  sure  you  mean  well, 
but  are  you  quite  certain  that  you  know 
how  to  execute  such  a trust  as  this? 
I am  an  old  man,  like  you,  and  I am 
actuated  by  an  old  man’s  concern  in 
all  that  is  young  and  promising.  Do 
you  not  think  that  what  I have  seen 
of  you  and  this  little  creature  to-night 
must  have  an  interest  not  wholly  free 
from  pain  ? ” 

“ Sir,”  rejoined  the  old  man  after  a 
moment’s  silence,  “ I have  no  right  to 
feel  hurt  at  what  you  say.  It  is  true 
that  in  many  respects  I am  the  child, 
and  she  the  grown  person,  — that  you 
have  seen  already.  But,  waking  or 
sleeping,  by  night  or  day,  in  sickness  or 
health,  she  is  the  one  object  of  my  care  ; 
and  if  you  knew  of  how  much  care, 
you  would  look  on  me  with  different 
eyes,  you  would  indeed.  Ah  ! it ’s  a 
weary  life  for  an  old  man,  — a weary, 
weary  life,  — but  there  is  a great  end  to 
gain,  and  that  I keep  before  me.” 

Seeing  that  he  was  in  a state  of  ex- 
citement and  impatience,  I turned  to 
put  on  an  outer  coat  which  I had  thrown 
off,  on  entering  the  room,  purposing  to 
say  no  more.  I was  surprised  to  see 
the  child  standing  patiently  by,  with  a 
cloak  upon  her  arm,  and  in  her  hand  a 
hat  and  stick. 

“Those  are  not  mine,  my  dear,” 
said  I. 

“ No,”  returned  the  child,  quietly, 
“ they  are  grandfather’s.” 

“But  he  is  not  going  out  to-night.” 

“O  yes  he  is,”  said  the  child,  with 
a smile. 

“And  what  becomes  of  you,  my  pret- 
ty one?” 

“Me!  I stay  here  of  course.  I al- 
ways do.” 

I looked  in  astonishment  towards 
the  old  man  ; but  he  was,  or  feigned  to 
be,  busied  in  the  arrangement  of  his 
dress.  From  him  I looked  back  to 
the  slight,  gentle  figure  of  the  child. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


*7 


Alone ! In  that  gloomy  place  all  the 
long,  dreary  night ! 

She  evinced  no  consciousness  of  my 
surprise,  but  cheerfully  helped  the  old 
man  with  his  cloak,  and,  when  he. was 
ready,  took  a candle  to  light  us  out. 
Finding  that  we  did  not  follow  as  she 
expected,  she  looked  back  with  a smile 
and  waited  for  us.  The  old  man  showed 
by  his  face  that  he  plainly  understood 
the  cause  of  my  hesitation,  but  he  mere- 
ly signed  to  me  with  an  inclination  of 
the  head  to  pass  out  of  the  room  before 
him,  and  remained  silent.  I had  no 
resource  but  to  comply. 

When  we  reached  the  door,  the  child, 
setting  down  the  candle,  turned  to  say 
good  night  and  raised  her  face  to  kiss 
me.  Then  she  ran  to  the  old  man, 
who  folded  her  in  his  arms  and  bade 
God  bless  her. 

“ Sleep  soundly,  Nell,”  he  said  in  a 
low  voice,  “and  angels  guard  thy  bed  ! 
Do  not  forget  thy  prayers,  my  sweet.” 

“ No  indeed,”  answered  the  child  fer- 
vently, “ they  make  me  feel  so  happy  ! ” 

“ That ’s  well ; I know  they  do  ; they 
should,”  said  the  old  man.  “ Bless  thee 
a hundred  times  ! Early  in  the  morning 
I shall  be  home.” 

“ You  ’ll  not  ring  twice,”  returned  the 
child.  “The  bell  wakes  me,  even  in 
the  middle  of  a dream.” 

With  this  they  separated.  The  child 
opened  the  door  (now  guarded  by  a shut- 
ter which  I had  heard  the  boy  put  up 
before  he  left  the  house),  and  with  anoth- 
er farewell,  whose  clear  and  tender  note 
I have  recalled  a thousand  times,  held  it 
until  we  had  passed  out.  The  old  man 
paused  a moment  while  it  was  gently 
closed  and  fastened  on  the  inside,  and, 
satisfied  that  this  was  done,  walked  on 
at  a slow  pace.  At  the  street  corner  he 
stopped.  Regarding  me  with  a troubled 
countenance,  he  said  that  our  ways  were 
widely  different,  and  that  he  must  take 
his  leave.  I would  have  spoken,  but, 
summoning  up  more  alacrity  than  might 
have  been  expected  in  one  of  his  appear- 
ance, he.  hurried  away.  I could  see, 
that,  twice  or  thrice,  he  looked  back  as 
if  to  ascertain  if  I were  still  watching 
him,  or  perhaps  to  assure  himself  that  I 
was  not  following,  at  a distance.  The 
<?bs<jurity  of  the  night  favored  his  disap- 
2 


pearance,  and  his  figure  was  soon  beyond 
my  sight. 

I remained  standing  on  the  spot  where 
he  had  left  me,  unwilling  to  depart,  and 
yet  unknowing  why  I should  loiter 
there.  I looked  wistfully  into  the  street 
we  had  lately  quitted,  and,  after  a time, 
directed  my  steps  that  way.  I passed 
and  repassed  the  house,  and  stopped, 
and  listened  at  the  door.  All  was  dark, 
and  silent  as  the  grave. 

Yet  I lingered  about,  and  could  not 
tear  myself  away ; thinking  of  all  possi- 
ble harm  that  might  happen  to  the  child, 
— of  fires,  and  robberies,  and  even  mur- 
der,— and  feeling  as  if  some  evil  must 
ensue  if  I turned  my  back  upon  the 
place.  The  closing  of  a door  or  window 
in  the  street  brought  me  before  the  cu- 
riosity dealer’s  once  more.  I crossed 
the  road,  and  looked  up  at  the  house,  to 
assure  myself  that  the  noise  had  not 
come  from  there.  No,  it  was  black, 
cold,  and  lifeless  as  before. 

There  were  few  passengers  astir  ; the 
street  was  sad  and  dismal,  and  pretty 
well  my  own.  A few  stragglers  from  the 
theatres  hurried  by,  and  now  and  then'  I 
turned  aside  to  avoid  some  noisy  drunk- 
ard as  he  reeled  homewards  ; but  these 
interruptions  were  not  frequent  and  soon 
ceased.  The  clocks  struck  one.  Still  I 
paced  up  and  down,  promising  myself 
that  every  time  should  be  the  last,  and 
breaking  faith  with  myself  on  some  new 
plea  as  often  as  I did  so. 

The  more  I thought  of  what  the  old 
man  had  said,  and  of  his  looks  and 
bearing,  the  less  I could  account  for 
what  I had  seen  and  heard.  I had  a 
strong  misgiving  that  his  nightly  absence 
was  for  no  good  purpose.  I had  only 
come  to  know  the  fact  through  the  inno- 
cence of  the  child  ; and,  though  the  old 
man  was  by  at  the  time  and  saw  my 
undisguised  surprise,  he  had  preserved 
a strange  mystery  on  the  subject,  and 
offered  no  word  of  explanation.  _ These 
reflections  naturally  recalled  again,  more 
strongly  than  before,  his  haggard  face, 
his  wandering  manner,  his  restless  anx- 
ious looks.  His  affection  for  the  child 
might  not  be  inconsistent  with  villany  of 
the  worst  kind  ; even  that  very  affection 
was,  in  itself,  an  extraordinary  contradic- 
tion, or  how  could  he  leave  her  thus? 


x8 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


Disposed  as  I was  to  think  badly  of  him, 
I never  doubted  that  his  love  for  her  was 
real.  I could  not  admit  the  thought, 
remembering  what  had  passed  between 
us,  and  the  tone  of  voice  in  which  he 
had  called  her  by  her  name. 

“ Stay  here  of  course,”  the  child  had 
said  in  answer  to  my  question  ; “ I al- 
ways do  ! ” What  could  take  him  from 
home  by  night,  and  every  night  ! I 
called  up  all  the  strange  tales  I had 
ever  heard,  of  dark  and  secret  deeds 
committed  in  great  towns  and  escaping 
detection  for  a long  series  of  years. 
Wild  as  many  of  these  stories  were,  I 
could  not  find  one  adapted  to  this  mys- 
tery, which  only  became  the  more  im- 
penetrable, in  proportion  as  I sought  to 
solve  it. 

Occupied  with  such  thoughts  as  these, 
and  a crowd  of  others  all  tending  to 
the  same  point,  I continued  to  pace  the 
street  for  two  long  hours.  At  length  the 
rain  began  to  descend  heavily  ; and 
then,  overpowered  by  fatigue,  though 
no  less  interested  than  I had  been  at 
first,  I engaged  the  nearest  coach  and 
so  got  home.  A cheerful  fire  was  blaz- 
ing on  the  hearth,  the  lamp  burnt 
brightly,  my  clock  received  me  with  its 
old  familiar  welcome  ; everything  was 
quiet,  warm,  and  cheering,  and  in  hap- 

?y  contrast  to  the  gloom  and  darkness 
had  quitted. 

I sat  down  in  my  easy-chair,  and,  fall- 
ing back  upon  its  ample  cushions,  pic- 
tured to  myself  the  child  in  her  bed ; 
alone,  unwatched,  uncared  for  (save  by 
angels),  yet  sleeping  peacefully.  So 
very  young,  so  spiritual,  so  slight  and 
fairy-like  a creature  passing  the  long 
dull  nights  in  such  an  uncongenial 
place,  — I could  not  dismiss  it  from  my 
thoughts. 

We  are  so  much  in  the  habit  of  allow- 
ing impressions  to  be  made  upon  us  by 
external  objects,  which  should  be  pro- 
duced by  reflection  alone,  but  which, 
without  such  visible  aids,  often  escape 
us,  that  I am  not  sure  I should  have 
been  so  thoroughly  possessed  by  this  one 
subject,  but  for  the  heaps  of. fantastic 
things  I had  seen  huddled  together  in 
the  curiosity  dealer’s  warehouse.  These, 
crowding  on  my  mind,  in  connection 
with  the  child,  and  gathering  round  her, 


as  it  were,  brought  her  condition  palpa- 
bly before  me.  I had  her  image,  with- 
out any  effort  of  imagination,  surround- 
ed and  beset  by  everything  that  was 
foreign  to  its  nature,  and  furthest  re- 
moved from  the  sympathies  of  her  sex 
and  age.  If  these  helps  to  my  fancy 
had  all  been  wanting,  and  I had  been 
forced  to  imagine  her  in  a common 
chamber,  with  nothing  unusual  or  un- 
couth in  its  appearance,  it  is  very  prob- 
able that  I should  have  been  less  im- 
pressed with  her  strange  and  solitapr 
state.  As  it  was,  she  seemed  to  exist  in 
a kind  of  allegory  ; and,  having  these 
shapes  about  her,  claimed  my  interest 
so  strongly  that  (as  I have  already  re- 
marked) I could  not  dismiss  her  from 
my  recollection,  do  what  I would. 

“ It  would  be  a curious  speculation,” 
said  I,  after  some  restless  turns  across 
and  across  the  room,  “to  imagine  her 
in  her  future  life,  holding  her  solitary 
way  among  a crowd  of  wild,  grotesque 
companions,  — the  only  pure,  fresh, 
youthful  object  in  the  throng.  It  would 
be  curious  to  find  — ” 

I checked  myself  here,  for  the  theme 
was  carrying  me  along  with  it  at  a great 
pace,  and  I already  saw  before  me  a 
region  on  which  I was  little  disposed  to 
enter.  I agreed  with  myself  that  this 
was  idle  musing,  and  resolved  to  go  to 
bed,  and  court  forgetfulness. 

But  all  that  night,  waking  or  in  my 
sleep,  the  same  thoughts  recurred,  and 
the  same  images  retained  possession  of 
my  brain.  I had,  ever  before  me,  the 
old  dark  murky  rooms,  — the  gaunt 
suits  of  mail  with  their  ghostly  silent 
air,  — the  faces  all  awry,  grinning  from 
wood  and  stone,  — the  dust,  and  rust, 
and  worm  that  lives  in  wood,  — and 
alone  in  the  midst  of  all  this  lumber 
and  decay  and  ugly  age,  the  beautiful 
child  in  her  gentle  slumber,  smiling 
through  her  light  and  sunny  dreams. 


CHAPTER  II. 

After  combating,  for  nearly  a week, 
the  feeling  w'hich  impelled  me  to  revisit 
the  place  I had  quitted  under  the  cir- 
cumstances already  detailed,  I yielded 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


19 


to  it  at  length ; and,  determining  that 
this  time  I would  present  myself  by  the 
light  of  day,  bent  my  steps  thither  early 
in  the  afternoon. 

I walked  past  the  house,  and  took 
several  turns  in  the  street,  with  that 
kind  of  hesitation  which  is  natural  to  a 
man  who  is  conscious  that  the  visit  he 
is  about  to  pay  is  unexpected,  and  may 
not  be  very  acceptable.  However,  as 
the  door  of  the  shop  was  shut,  and  it 
did  not  appear  likely  that  I should  be 
recognized  by  those  within,  if  I contin- 
ued merely  to  pass  up  and  down  before 
it,  I soon  conquered  this  irresolution, 
and  found  myself  in  the  curiosity  deal- 
er’s warehouse. 

The  old  man  and  another  person 
were  together  in  the  back  part,  and 
there  seemed  to  have  been  high  words 
between  them,  for  their  voices,  which 
were  raised  to  a very  loud  pitch,  sud- 
denly stopped  on  my  entering,  and  the 
old  man,  advancing  hastily  towards  me, 
said  in  a tremulous  tone  that  he  was 
very  glad  I had  come. 

“You  interrupted  us  at  a critical  mo- 
ment,” he  said,  pointing  to  the  man 
whom  I had  found  in  company  with 
him.  “ This  fellow  will  murder  me  one 
of  these  days.  He  would  have  done  so, 
long  ago,  if  he  had  dared.” 

“ Bah  ! You  would  swear  away  my 
life  if  you  could,”  returned  the  other, 
after  bestowing  a stare  and  a frown  on 
me  ; “we  all  know  that  ! ” 

“I  almost  think  I could,”  cried  the 
old  man,  turning  feebly  upon  him.  “If 
oaths  or  prayers  or  words  could  rid 
me  of  you,  they  should.  I would  be 
quit  of  you,  and  would  be  relieved  if 
you  were  dead.” 

“ I know  it,”  returned  the  other. 
“ I said  so,  did  n’t  I ? But  neither 
oaths  nor  prayers  nor  words  will  kill 
me,  and  therefore  I live,  and  mean  to 
live.” 

“ And  his  mother  died  ! ” cried  the 
old  man,  passionately  clasping  his  hands 
and  looking  upward ; “ and  this  is  Heav- 
en’s justice  ! ” 

The  other  stood  lounging  with  his 
foot  upon  a chair,  and  regarded  him 
with  a contemptuous  sneer.  He  was  a 
young  man  of  one-and-twenty  or  there- 
abouts ; well  made,  and  certainly  hand- 


some, though  the  expression  of  his  face 
was  far  from  prepossessing,  having,  in 
common  with  his  manner  and  even  his 
dress,  a dissipated,  insolent  air  which 
repelled  one. 

“ Justice  or  no  justice,”  said  the 
young  fellow,  “ here  I am  and  here  I 
shall  stop  till  such  time  as  I think  fit 
to  go,  unless  you  send  for  assistance  to 
put  me  out, — which  you  won’t  do,  I 
know.  I tell  you  again  that  I want  to 
see  my  sister.” 

“ Your  sister  ! ” said  the  old  man, 
bitterly. 

“Ah!  You  can’t  change  the  rela- 
tionship,” returned  the  other.  “If you 
could,  you ’d  have  done  it  long  ago.  I 
want  to  see  my  sister,  that  you  keep 
cooped  up  here,  poisoning  her  mind 
with  your  sly  secrets,  and  pretending  an 
affection  for  her  that  you  may  work  her 
to  death,  and  add  a few  scraped  shil- 
lings every  week  to  the  money  you  can 
hardly  count.  I want  to  see  her ; and 
I will.” 

“ Here ’s  a moralist  to  talk  of  poisoned 
minds  ! Here ’s  a generous  spirit  to 
scorn  scraped-up  shillings ! ” cried  the 
old  man,  turning  from  him  to  me.  “ A 
profligate,  sir,  who  has  forfeited  every 
claim,  not  only  upon  those  who  have  the 
misfortune  to  be  of  his  blood,  but  upon 
society  which  knows  nothing  of  him 
but  his  misdeeds.  A liar  too,”  he  add- 
ed, in  a lower  voice  as  he  drew  closer 
to  me,  “ who  knows  how  dear  she  is  to 
me,  and  seeks  to  wound  me  even  there, 
because  there  is  a stranger  by.” 

“ Strangers  are  nothing  to  me,  grand- 
father,” said  the  young  fellow,  catching 
at  the  words,  “nor  I to  them,  I hope. 
The  best  they  can  do  is  to  keep  an  eye 
to  their  business  and  leave  me  to  mine. 
There ’s  a friend  of  mine  waiting  outside, 
and  as  it  seems  that  I may  have  to  wait 
some  time,  I ’ll  call  him  in,  with  your 
leave.” 

Saying  this,  he  stepped  to  the  door, 
and,  looking  down  the  street,  beckoned 
several  times  to  some  unseen  person, 
who,  to  judge  from  the  air  of  impatience 
with  which  these  signals  were  accompa- 
nied, required  a great  quantity  of  per- 
suasion to  induce  him  to  advance.  At 
length  there  sauntered  up,  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  way,  — with  a bad  pre- 


20 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


tence  of  passing  by  accident,  — a figure 
conspicuous  for  its  dirty  smartness, 
which,  after  a great  many  frowns  and 
jerks  of  the  head,  in  resistance  of  the 
invitation,  ultimately  crossed  the  road 
and  was  brought  into  the  shop. 

“There.  It’s  Dick  Swiveller,”  said 
the  young  fellow,  pushing  him  in.  “ Sit 
down,  Swiveller.” 

“ But  is  the  old  min  agreeable?”  said 
Mr.  Swiveller  in  an  undertone. 

“ Sit  down,”  repeated  his  compan- 
ion. 

Mr.  Swiveller  complied,  and,  looking 
about  him  with  a propitiatory  smile, 
observed  that  last  week  was  a fine  week 
for  the  ducks,  and  this  week  was  a fine 
week  for  the  dust ; he  also  observed 
that,  while  standing  by  the  post  at  the 
street  corner,  he  had  observed  a pig 
with  a straw  in  his  mouth  issuing  out 
of  the  tobacco-shop,  from  which  appear- 
ance he  augured  that  another  fine  week 
for  the  ducks  was  approaching,  and  that 
rain  would  certainly  ensue.  He  further- 
more took  occasion  to  apologize  for  any 
negligence  that  might  be  perceptible  in 
his  dress,  on  the  ground  that  last  night 
he  had  had  “the  sun  very  strong  in  his 
eyes”;  by  which  expression  he  was 
understood  to  convey  to  his  hearers,  in 
the  most  delicate  manner  possible,  the 
information  that  he  had  been  extremely 
drunk. 

“ But  what,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller  with 
a sigh,  — “what  is  the  odds  so  long  as  the 
fire  of  soul  is  kindled  at  the  taper  of 
conwiviality,  and  the  wing  of  friendship 
never  moults  a feather ! What  is  the 
odds  so  long  as  the  spirit  is  expanded 
by  means  of  rosy  wine,  and  the  present 
moment  is  the  least  happiest  of  our 
existence  ! ” 

“ You  needn’t  act  the  chairman  here,” 
said  his  friend,  half  aside. 

“ Fred!  ” cried  Mr.  Swiveller,  tapping 
his  nose,  “ a word  to  the  wise  is  suffi- 
cient for  them, —we  maybe  good  and 
happy  without  riches,  Fred.  Say  not 
another  syllable.  I know  my  cue  ; smart 
is  the  word.  Only  one  little  whisper, 
Fred,  — is  the  old  min  friendly? ” 

“ Never  you  mind,”  replied  his  friend. 

“ Right  again,  quite  right,”  said  Mr. 
Swiveller;  “caution  is  The  word,  and 
caution  is  the  act.”  With  that,  he 


winked  as  if  in  preservation  of  some 
deep  secret,  and,  folding  his  arms  and 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  looked  up  at 
the  ceiling  with  profound  gravity. 

It  was  perhaps  not  very  unreasonable 
to  suspect,  from  what  had  already  passed, 
that  Mr.  Swiveller  was  not  quite  re- 
covered from  the  effects  of  the  powerful 
sunlight  to  which  he  had  made  allusion  ; 
but  if  no  such  suspicion  had  been  awak- 
ened by  his  speech,  his  wiry  hair,  dull 
eyes,  and  sallow  face  would  still  have 
been  strong  witnesses  against  him.  His 
attire  was  not,  as  he  had  himself  hinted, 
remarkable  for  the  nicest  arrangement, 
but  was  in  a state  of  disorder  which 
strongly  induced  the  idea  that  he  had 
gone  to  bed  in  it.  It  consisted  of  a 
brown  body-coat  with  a great  many 
brass  buttons  up  the  front  and  only  one 
behind,  a bright  check  neckerchief,  a 
plaid  waistcoat,  soiled  white  trousers, 
and  a very  limp  hat,  worn  with  the 
wrong  side  foremost,  to  hide  a hole  in 
the  brim.  The  breast  of  his  coat  was 
ornamented  with  an  outside  pocket,  from 
which  there  peeped  forth  the  cleanest 
end  of  a very  large  and  very  ill-favored 
handkerchief ; his  dirty  wristbands  were 
pulled  down  as  far  as  possible,  and 
ostentatiously  folded  back  over  his 
cuffs ; he  displayed  no  gloves,  and 
carried  a yellow  cane  having  at  the  top 
a bone  hand  with  the  semblance  of  a 
ring  on  its  little  finger  and  a black  ball 
in  its  grasp.  With  all  these  personal 
advantages  (to  which  may  be  added  a 
strong  savor  of  tobacco-smoke,  and  a 
prevailing  greasiness  of  appearance), 
Mr.  Swiveller  leant  back  in  his  chair 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ceiling,  and 
occasionally,  pitching  his  voice  to  the 
needful  key,  obliged  the  company  with 
a few  bars  of  an  intensely  dismal  air, 
and  then,  in  the  middle  of  a note,  re- 
lapsed into  his  former  silence. 

The  old  man  sat  himself  down  in  a 
chair,  and,  with  folded  hands,  looked 
sometimes  at  his  grandson  and  some- 
times at  his  strange  companion,  as  if 
he  were  utterly  powerless,  and  had  no 
resource  but  to  leave  them  to  do  as 
they  pleased.  The  young  man  reclined 
against  a table  at  no  great  distance  from 
his  friend,  in  apparent  indifference  to 
everything  that  had  passed ; and  I - 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


21 


who  felt  the  difficulty  of  any  interfer- 
ence, notwithstanding  that  the  old  man 
had  appealed  to  me,  both  by  words  and 
looks  — made  the  best  feint  I could  of 
being  occupied  in  examining  some  of 
the  goods  that  were  disposed  for  sale, 
and  paying  very  little  attention  to  the 
persons  before  me. 

The  silence  was  not  of  long  duration, 
for  Mr.  Swiveller,  after  favoring  us  with 
several  melodious  assurances  that  his 
heart  was  in  the  highlands,  and  that  he 
wanted  but  his  Arab  steed  as  a prelimi- 
nary, to  the  achievement  of  great  feats 
of  valor  and  loyalty,  removed  his  eyes 
from  the  ceiling  and  subsided  into  prose 
again. 

“ Fred,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  stopping 
short  as  if  the  idea  had  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  him,  and  speaking  in  the  same 
audible  whisper  as  before,  “ is  the  old 
min  friendly?” 

“What  does  it  matter?”  returned 
his  friend,  peevishly. 

“ No,  but  is  he  ? ” said  Dick. 

“Yes,  of  course.  What  do  I care 
whether  he  is  or  not ! ” 

Emboldened,  as  it  seemed,  by  this 
reply  to  enter  into  a more  general  con- 
versation, Mr.  Swiveller  plainly  laid 
himself  out  to  captivate  our  attention. 

He  began  by  remarking  that  soda- 
water,  though  a good  thing  in  the 
abstract,  was  apt  to  lie  cold  upon  the 
stomach  unless  qualified  with  ginger,  or 
a small  infusion  of  brandy,  which  latter 
article  he  held  to  be  preferable  in  all 
cases,  saving  for  the  one  consideration 
of  expense.  Nobody  venturing  to  dis- 
pute these  positions,  he  proceeded  to 
observe  that  the  human  hair  was  a great 
retainer  of  tobacco-smoke,  and  that  the 
young  gentlemen  of  Westminster  and 
Eton,  after  eating  vast  quantities  of 
apples  to  conceal  any  scent  of  cigars 
from  their  anxious  friends,  were  usually 
detected  in  consequence  of  their  heads 
possessing  this  remarkable  property ; 
whence  he  concluded  that  if  the  Royal 
Society  would  turn  their  attention  to 
the  circumstance,  and  endeavor  to  find 
in  the  resources  of  science  a means  of 
preventing  such  untoward  revelations, 
they  might  indeed  be  looked  upon  as 
benefactors  to  mankind.  These  opin- 
ions being  equally  incontrovertible  with 


those  he  had  already  pronounced,  he 
went  on  to  inform  us  that  Jamaica  rum, 
though  unquestionably  an  agreeable 
spirit  of  great  richness  and  flavor,  had 
the  drawback  of  remaining  constantly 
present  to  the  taste  next  day ; and 
nobody  being  venturous  enough  to 
argue  this  point  either,  he  increased  in 
confidence  and  became  yet  more  com- 
panionable and  communicative. 

“ It ’s  a devil  of  a thing,  gentlemen,” 
said  Mr.  Swiveller,  “ when  relations  fall 
out  and  disagree.  If  the  wing  of  friend- 
ship should  never  moult  a feather,  the 
wing  of  relationship  should  never  be 
clipped,  but  be  always  expanded  and 
serene.  Why  should  a grandson  and 
grandfather  peg  away  at  each  other  with 
mutual  wiolence,  when  all  might  be  bliss 
and  concord?  Why  not  jine  hands  and 
forgit  it?  ” 

“ Hold  your  tongue,”  said  his  friend. 

“Sir,”  replied  Mr.  Swiveller,  “don’t 
ou  interrupt  the  chair.  Gentlemen, 
ow  does  the  case  stand,  upon  the  pres- 
ent occasion?  Here  is  a jolly  old 
grandfather,  — I say  it  with  the  utmost 
respect,  — and  here  is  a wild  young 
grandson.  The  jolly  old  grandfather 
says  to  the  wild  young  grandson,  * I 
have  brought  you  up  and  educated  you, 
Fred;  I have  put  you  in  the  way  of 
getting  on  in  life ; you  have  bolted  a 
little  out  of  the  course,  as  young  fellows 
often  do ; and  you  shall  never  have 
another  chance,  nor  the  ghost  of  half  a 
one.’  The  wild  young  grandson  makes 
answer  to  this  and  says,  ‘ You  ’re  as 
rich  as  rich  can  be  ; you  have  been  at 
no  uncommon  expense  on  my  account ; 
you  ’re  saving  up  piles  of  money  for  my 
little  sister  that  lives  with  you  in  a se- 
cret stealthy,  hugger-muggering  kind 
of  way  and  with  no  manner  of  enjoy- 
ment, — why  can’t  you  stand  a trifle  for 
your  grown-up  relation  ? ’ The  jolly 
old  grandfather  unto  this  retorts,  not 
only  that  he  declines  to  fork  out  with 
that  cheerful  readiness  which  is  always 
so  agreeable  and  pleasant  in  a gentle- 
man of  his  time  of  life,  but  that  he  will 
blow  up,  and  call  names,  and  make  re- 
flections whenever  they  meet.  Then 
the  plain  question  is,  Ain’t  it  a pity  that 
this  state  of  things  should  continue,  and 
how  much  better  would  it  be  for  the  old 


22 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


gentleman  to  hand  over  a reasonable 
amount  of  tin,  and  make  it  all  right  and 
comfortable  ? ” 

Having  delivered  this  oration  with  a 
great  many  waves  and  flourishes  of  the 
hand,  Mr.  Swiveller  abruptly  thrust  the 
head  of  his  cane  into  his  mouth  as  if 
to  prevent  himself  from  impairing  the 
effect  of  his  speech  by  adding  one  other 
word. 

“ Why  do  you  hunt  and  persecute 
me,  God  help  me?”  said  the  old  man, 
turning  to  his  grandson.  “ Why  do 
you  bring  your  profligate  companions 
here  ? How  often  am  I to  tell  you  that 
my  life  is  one  of  care  and  self-denial, 
and  that  I am  poor?” 

“ How  often  am  I to  tell  you,”  re- 
turned the  other,  looking  coldly  at  him, 
“that  I know  better?” 

“ You  have  chosen  your  own  path,” 
said  the  old  man.  “ Follow  it.  Leave 
Nell  and  I to  toil  and  work.” 

“ Nell  will  be  a woman  soon,”  re- 
turned the  other,  “and,  bred  in  your 
faith,  she  ’ll  forget  her  brother  unless 
he  shows  himself  sometimes.” 

“Take  care,”  said  the  old  man  with 
sparkling  eyes,  “ that  she  does  not  for- 
get you  when  you  would  have  her  mem- 
ory keenest.  Take  care  that  the  day 
don’t  come  when  you  walk  barefoot  in 
the  streets,  and  she  rides  by  in  a gay 
carriage  of  her  own.” 

“You  mean  when  she  has  your  mon- 
ey?” retorted  the  other.  “ How  like  a 
poor  man  he  talks  ! ” 

“ And  yet,”  said  the  old  man,  drop- 
ping his  voice  and  speaking  like  one 
who  thinks  aloud,  “ how  poor  we  are, 
and  what  a life  it  is  ! The  cause  is  a 
young  child’s,  guiltless  of  all  harm  or 
wrong,  but  nothing  goes  well  with  it  ! 
Hope  and  patience,  hope  and  pa- 
tience ! ” 

These  words  were  uttered  in  too  low 
a tone  to  reach  the  ears  of  the  young 
men.  Mr.  Swiveller  appeared  to  think 
that  they  implied  some  mental  struggle 
consequent  upon  the  powerful  effect  of 
his  address,  for  he  poked  his  friend  with 
his  cane  and  whispered  his  conviction 
that  he  had  administered  “ a clincher,” 
and  that  he  expected  a commission  on 
the  profits.  Discovering  his  mistake 
after  a while,  he  appeared  to  grow  rath- 


er sleepy  and  discontented,  and  had 
more  than  once  suggested  the  propriety 
of  an  immediate  departure,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  the  child  herself  ap- 
peared. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  child  was  closely  followed  by  an 
elderly  man  of  remarkably  hard  features 
and  forbidding  aspect,  and  so  low  in 
stature  as  to  be  quite  a dwarf,  though 
his  head  and  face  were  large  enough  for 
the  body  of  a giant.  His  black  eyes 
were  restless,  sly,  and  cunning ; his 
mouth  and  chin,  bristly  with  the  stubble 
of  a coarse  hard  beard;  and  his  com- 
plexion was  one  of  that  kind  which 
never  looks  clean  or  wholesome.  But 
what  added  most  to  the  grotesque 
expression  of  his  face  was  a ghastly 
smile,  which,  appearing  to  be  the  mere 
result  of  habit,  and  to  have  no  connec- 
tion with  any  mirthful  or  complacent 
feeling,  constantly  revealed  the  few  dis- 
colored fangs  that  were  yet  scattered  in 
his  mouth,  and  gave  him  the  aspect  of  a 
panting  dog.  His  dress  consisted  of  a 
large  high-crowned  hat,  a worn  dark 
suit,  a pair  of  capacious  shoes,  and  a 
dirty  white  neckerchief  sufficiently  limp 
and  crumpled  to  disclose  the  greater 
portion  of  his  wiry  throat.  Such  hair 
as  he  had  was  of  a grizzled  black,  cut 
short  and  straight  upon  his  temples, 
and  hanging  in  a frowzy  fringe  about 
his  ears.  His  hands,  which  were  of  a 
rough  coarse  grain,  were  very  dirty  ; his 
finger-nails  were  crooked,  long,  and 
yellow. 

There  wras  ample  time  to  note  these 
particulars,  for,  besides  that  they  w^ere 
sufficiently  obvious  without  very  close 
observation,  some  moments  elapsed  be- 
fore any  one  broke  silence.  The  child 
advanced  timidly  towards  her  brother 
and  put  her  hand  in  his  ; the  dwarf  (if 
we  may  call  him  so)  glanced  keenly  at 
all  present ; and  the  curiosity  dealer, 
who  plainly  had  not  expected  his  un- 
couth visitor,  seemed  disconcerted  and 
embarrassed. 

“ Ah  ! ” said  the  dwarf,  who,  with  his 
hand  stretched  out  above  his.  eyes,  had 
been  surveying  the  young  man  atten- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


33 


tively,  “ that  should  be  your  grandson, 
neighbor  I ” 

“ Say  rather  that  he  should  not  be,” 
replied  the  old  man.  “ But  he  is.”  > 

“And  that?”  said  the  dwarf,  point- 
ing to  Dick  Swiveller. 

“ Some  friend  of  his,  as  welcome  here 
as  he,”  said  the  old  man. 

“And  that?”  inquired  the  dwarf, 
wheeling  round  and  pointing  straight 
at  me. 

“ A gentleman  who  was  so  good  as  to 
bring  Nell  home  the  other  night  when 
she  lost  her  way,  coming  from  your 
house.” 

The  little  man  turned  to  the  child  as 
if  to  chide  her  or  express  his  wonder, 
but,  as  she  was  talking  to  the  young 
man,  held  his  peace,  and  bent  his  head 
to  listen. 

“ Well,  Nelly,”  said  the  young  fellow 
aloud.  “ Do  they  teach  you  to  hate 
me,  eh?” 

“ No,  no.  For  shame.  O no  ! ” cried 
the  child. 

“To  love  me,  perhaps?”  pursued  her 
brother  with  a sneer. 

“To  do  neither,”  she  returned. 
“They  never  speak  to  me  about  you. 
Indeed  they  never  do.” 

“ I dare  be  bound  for  that,”  he  said, 
darting  a bitter  look  at  the  grandfather. 
“ I dare  be  bound  for  that,  Nell.  O, 
I believe  you  there  ! ” 

“ But  I love  you  dearly,  Fred,”  said 
the  child. 

“ No  doubt ! ” 

“ I do  indeed,  and  always  will,”  the 
child  repeated  with  great  emotion ; “ but 
O,  if  you  would  leave  off  vexing  him 
and  making  him  unhappy,  then  I could 
love  you  more.” 

“ I see  ! ” said  the  young  man,  as  he 
stooped  carelessly  over  the  child,  and, 
having  kissed  her,  pushed  her  from  him. 
“There,  get  you  away  now  you  have  said 
your  lesson.  You  need  n’t  whimper. 
We  part  good  friends  enough,  if  that’s 
the  matter.” 

He  remained  silent,  following  her 
with  his  eyes,  until  she  had  gained  her 
little  room  and  closed  the  door  ; and 
then,  turning  to  the  dwarf,  said  ab- 
ruptly, — 

“Hark’ee,  Mr.  — ” 

“ Meaning  me  ? ” returned  the  dwarf. 


“ Quilp  is  my  name.  You  might  re- 
member. It ’s  not  a long  one,  — Daniel 
Quilp.” 

“Hark’ee,  Mr.  Quilp,  then,”  pur- 
sued the  other.  “You  have  some  in- 
fluence with  my  grandfather  there.” 

“ Some,”  said  Mr.  Quilp,  emphati- 
cally. 

“ And  are  in  a few  of  his  mysteries 
and  secrets.” 

“A  few,”  replied  Quilp,  with  equal 
dryness. 

“ Then  let  me  tell  him  once  for  all, 
through  you,  that  I will  come  into  and 
go  out  of  this  place  as  often  as  I like,  so 
long  as  he  keeps  Nell  here  ; and  that, 
if  he  wants  to  be  quit  of  me,  he  must 
first  be  quit  of  her.  What  have  I done 
to  be  made  a bugbear  of,  and  to  be 
shunned  and  dreaded  as  if  I brought 
the  plague  ? He  ’ll  tell  you  that  I have 
no  natural  affection  ; and  that  I care  no 
more  for  Nell,  for  her  own  sake,  than  I 
do  for  him.  Let  him  say  so.  I care  for 
the  whim,  then,  of  coming  to  and  fro 
and  reminding  her  of  my  existence.  I 
will  see  her  when  I please.  That’s 
my  point.  I came  here  to-day  to  main- 
tain it,  and  I ’ll  come  here  again  fifty 
times  with  the  same  object  and  always 
with  the  same  success.  I said  I would 
stop  till  I had  gained  it.  I have  done 
so,  and  now  my  visit ’s  ended.  Come, 
Dick.” 

“ Stop  ! ” cried  Mr.  Swiveller,  as  his 
companion  turned  towards  the  door. 
“ Sir  ! ” 

“ Sir,  I am  your  humble  servant,” 
said  Mr.  Quilp,  to  whom  the  monosyl- 
lable was  addressed. 

“ Before  I leave  the  gay  and  festive 
scene,  and  halls  of  dazzling  light,  sir,” 
said  Mr.  Swiveller,  “ I will,  with  your 
permission,  attempt  a slight  remark. 
I came  here,  sir,  this  day,  under  the 
impression  that  the  old  min  was  friend- 
ly.” 

“ Proceed,  sir,”  said  Daniel  Quilp ; 
for  the  orator  had  made  a sudden 
stop. 

“ Inspired  by  this  idea  and  the  senti- 
ments it  awakened,  sir,  and  feeling  as  a 
mutual  friend  that  badgering,  baiting,  and 
bullying  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  cal- 
culated to  expand  the  souls  and  promote 
the  social  harmony  of  the  contending 


24 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


parties,  I took  upon  myself  to  suggest  a 
course  which  is  the  course  to  be  adopted 
on  the  present  occasion.  Will  you  allow 
me  to  whisper  half  a syllable,  sir?  ” 

Without  waiting  for  the  permission 
he  sought,  Mr.  Swiveller  stepped  up  to 
the  dwarf,  and,  leaning  on  his  shoulder 
and  stooping  down  to  get  at  his  ear, 
said  in  a voice  which  was  perfectly 
audible  to  all  present,  — 

“The  watchword  to  the  old  min  is 
— fork.” 

“ Is  what?”  demanded  Quilp. 

" Is  fork,  sir,  fork,”  replied  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller, slapping  his  pocket.  “You  are 
awake,  sir?” 

The  dwarf  nodded.  Mr.  Swiveller 
drew  back  and  nodded  likewise,  then 
drew  a little  farther  back  and  nodded 
again,  and  so  on.  By  these  means  he 
in  time  reached  the  door,  where  he  gave 
a great  cough  to  attract  the  dwarf’s 
attention  and  gain  an  opportunity  of 
expressing,  in  dumb  show,  the  closest 
confidence  and  most  inviolable  secrecy. 
Having  performed  the  serious  panto- 
mime that  was  necessary  for  the  due 
conveyance  of  these  ideas,  he  cast  him- 
self upon  his  friend’s  track,  and  van- 
ished. 

“ Humph  ! ” said  the  dwarf,  with  a 
sour  look  and  a shrug  of  his  shoulders, 
“so  much  for  dear  relations.  Thank 
God  I acknowledge  none  ! Nor  need 
you  either,”  he  added,  turning  to  the 
old  man,  “if  you  were  not  as  weak  as 
a reed,  and  nearly  as  senseless.” 

“ What  would  you  have  me  do  ? ” 
he  retorted  in  a kind  of  helpless  des- 
peration. “ It  is  easy  to  talk  and 
sneer.  What  would  you  have  me 
do?” 

“ What  would  / do  if  I was  in  your 
case?”  said  the  dwarf. 

“ Something  violent,  no  doubt.” 

“You’re  right  there,”  returned  the 
little  man,  highly  gratified  by  the  com- 
pliment, for  such  he  evidently  consid- 
ered it ; and  grinning  like  a devil  as  he 
rubbed  his  dirty  hands  together.  “ Ask 
Mrs.  Quilp,  pretty  Mrs.  Quilp,  obedi- 
ent, timid,  loving  Mrs.  Quilp.  But 
that  reminds  me,  — I have  left  her  all 
alone,  and  she  will  be  . anxious  and 
know  not  a moment’s  peace  till  I re- 
turn. I know  she ’s  always  in  that  con- 


dition when  I ’m  away,  though  she 
doesn’t  dare  to  say  so,  unless  I lead 
her  on  and  tell  her  she  may  speak 
freely,  and  I won’t  be  angry  with  her. 
O,  well-trained  Mrs.  Quilp  ! ” 

. The  creature  appeared  quite  horrible, 
with  his  monstrous  head  and  little  body, 
as  he  rubbed  his  hands  slowly  round 
and  round  and  round  again,  — with 
something  fantastic  even  in  his  manner 
of  performing  this  slight  action,  — and, 
dropping  his  shaggy  brows  and  cocking 
his  chin  in  the  air,  glanced  upward  with 
a stealthy  look  of  exultation  that  an  imp 
might  have  copied  and  appropriated  to 
himself. 

“ Here,”  he  said,  putting  his  hand 
into  his  breast  and  sidling  up  to  the 
old  man  as  he  spoke ; “ I brought  it 
myself  for  fear  of  accidents,  as,  being  in 
gold,  it  was  something  large  and  heavy 
for  Nell  to  carry  in  her  bag.  She  need 
be  accustomed  to  such  loads  betimes, 
though,  neighbor,  for  she  will  carry 
weight  when  you  are  dead.” 

“ Heaven  send  she  may ! I hope 
so,”  said  the  old  man  with  something 
like  a groan. 

“Hope  so!”  echoed  the  dwarf,  ap- 
proaching close  to  his  ear.  “ Neighbor, 
I would  I knew  in  what  good  invest- 
ment all  these  supplies  are  sunk.  But 
you  are  a deep  man,  and  keep  your 
secret  close.” 

“ My  secret ! ” said  the  other  with  a 
haggard  look.  “Yes,  you’re  right  — 
I — I — keep  it  close  — very  close.” 

He  said  no  more,  but,  taking  the 
money,  turned  away  with  a slow,  uncer- 
tain step,  and  pressed  his  hand  upon 
his  head  like  a weary  and  dejected  man. 
The  dwarf  watched  him  sharply,  w^hile 
he  passed  into  the  little  sitting-room 
and  locked  it  in  an  iron  safe  above  the 
chimney-piece  ; and,  after  musing  for  a 
short  space,  prepared  to  take  his  leave, 
observing  that,  unless  he  made  good 
haste,  Mrs.  Quilp  would  certainly  be  in 
fits  on  his  return. 

“ And  so,  neighbor,”  he  added,  “ I *11 
turn  my  face  homewards,  leaving  my 
love  for  Nelly  and  hoping  she  may 
never  lose  her  w>ay  again,  though  Iier 
doing  so  has  procured  me  an  honor  I 
didn’t  expect.”  With  that,  he  bowed 
and  leered  at  me,  and  with  a keen 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


25 


glance ' around  which  seemed  to  com- 
prehend every  object  within  his  range 
of  vision,  however  small  or  trivial,  went 
his  way. 

I had  several  times  essayed  to  go 
myself,  but  the  old  man  had  always 
opposed  it  and  entreated  me  to  remain. 
As  he  renewed  his  entreaties  on  our 
being  left  alone,  and  adverted  with 
many  thanks  to  the  former  occasion  of 
our  being  together,  I willingly  yielded 
to  his  persuasions,  and  sat  down,  pre- 
tending to  examine  some  curious  minia- 
tures and  a few  old  medals  which  he 
placed  before  me.  It  needed  no  great 
pressing  to  induce  me  to  stay,  for  if  my 
curiosity  had  been  excited  on  the  occa- 
sion of  my  first  visit,  it  certainly  was 
not  diminished  now. 

Nell  joined  us  before  long,  and,  bring- 
ing some  needle-work  to  the  table,  sat 
by  the  old  man’s  side.  It  was  pleasant 
to  observe  the  fresh  flowers  in  the  room, 
the  pet  bird  with  a green  bough  shading 
his  little  cage,  the  breath  of  freshness  and 
youth  which  seemed  to  rustle  through 
the  old  dull  house  and  hover  round 
the  child.  It  was  curious,  but  not  so 
pleasant,  to  turn  from  the  beauty  and 
grace  of  the  girl  to  the  stooping  figure, 
care-worn  face,  and  jaded  aspect  of  the 
old  man.  As  he  grew  weaker  and  more 
feeble,  what  would  become  of  this  lonely 
little  creature?  Poor  protector  as  he 
was,  say  that  he  died,  — what  would  her 
fate  be  then  ? 

The  old  man  almost  answered  my 
thoughts,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  hers, 
and  spoke  aloud. 

“ I ’ll  be  of  better  cheer,  Nell,”  he 
said ; “ there  must  be  good  fortune  in 
store  for  thee : I do  not  ask  it  for  my- 
self, but  thee.  Such  miseries  must  fall 
on  thy  innocent  head  without  it,  that  I 
cannot  believe  but  that,  being  tempted, 
it  will  come  at  last ! ” 

She  looked  cheerfully  into  his  face, 
but  made  no  answer. 

“When  I think,”  said  he,  “of  the 
many  years  — many  in  thy  short  life  — 
that  thou  hast  lived  alone  with  me  ; of 
thy  monotonous  existence,  knowing  no 
companions  of  thy  own  age  nor  any 
childish  pleasures  ; of  the  sol  it  vide  in 
which  thou  hast  grown  to  be  what  thou 
art,  and  in  which  thou  hast  lived  apart 


from  nearly  all  thy  kind  but  one  old 
man  ; I sometimes  fear  I have  dealt . 
hardly  by  thee,  Nell.” 

“ Grandfather  ! ” cried  the  child  in  . 
unfeigned  surprise. 

“Not  in  intention,  — no,  no,”  said 
he.  “I  have  ever  looked  forward  to 
the  time  that  should  enable  thee  to  mix 
among  the  gayest  and  prettiest,  and. 
take  thy  station  with  the  best.  But  I 
still  look  forward,  Nell,  I still  look  for- 
ward, and  if  I should  be  forced  to  leave 
thee,  meanwhile,  how  have  I fitted 
thee  for  struggles  with  the  world  ? .The 
poor  bird  yonder  is  as  well  qualified  to 
encounter  it,  and  be  turned  adrift  upon 
its  mercies.  Hark  ! I hear  Kit  outside. 
Go  to  him,  Nell,  go  to  him.” 

She  rose,  and,  hurrying  away,  stopped, 
turned  back,  and  put  her  arms  about 
the  old  man’s  neck,  then  left  him  and 
hurried  away  again,  — but  faster  this 
time  to  hide  her  falling  tears. 

“A  word  in  your  ear,  sir,”  said  the 
old  man  in  a hurried  whisper.  “ I have 
been  rendered  uneasy  by  what  you  said 
the  other  night,  and  can  only  plead  that 
I have  done  all  for  the  best,  — that  it  is 
too  late  to  retract,  if  I could  (though  I 
cannot),  — and  that  I hope  to  triumph 
yet.  All  is  for  her  sake.  I have  borne 
great  poverty  myself,  and  would  spare  her 
the  sufferings  that  poverty  carries  with 
it.  I would  spare  her  the  miseries  that 
brought  her  mother,  my  own  dear  child, 
to  an  early  grave.  I would  leave  her, 
— not  with  resources  which  could  be 
easily  spent  or  squandered  away,  but 
with  what  would  place  her  beyond  the 
reach  of  want  forever.  You  mark  me, 
sir?  She  shall  have  no  pittance,  but  a 
fortune  — Hush  ! I can  say  no  more, 
than  that,  now  or  at  any  other  time, 
and  she  is  here  again  ! ” 

The  eagerness  with  which  all  this  was 
poured  into  my  ear,  the  trembling  of 
the  hand  with  which  he  clasped  my 
arm,  the  strained  and  starting  eyes  he 
fixed  upon  me,  the  wild  vehemence  and 
agitation  of  his  manner,  filled  me  with 
amazement.  All  that  I had  heard  and 
seen,  and  a great  part  of  what  he  had 
said  himself,  led  me  to  suppose  that  he 
was  a wealthy  man.  I could  form  no 
comprehension  of  his  character,  unless 
he  were  one  of  those  miserable  wretches 


26 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


who,  having  made  gain  the  sole  end 
and  object  of  their  lives,  and  having 
succeeded  in  amassing  great  riches,  are 
constantly  tortured  by  the  dread  of  pov- 
erty, and  beset  by  fears  of  loss  and 
ruin.  Many  things  he  had  said,  which 
I had  been  at  a loss  to  understand, 
were  quite  reconcilable  with  the  idea 
thus  presented  to  me,  and  at  length  I 
concluded  that  beyond  all  doubt  he  was 
one  of  this  unhappy  race. 

The  opinion  was  not  the  result  of 
hasty  consideration,  for  which  indeed 
there  was  no  opportunity  at  that  time, 
as  the  child  came  back  directly,  and 
soon  occupied  herself  in  preparations 
for  giving  Kit  a writing  lesson,  of  which 
it  seemed  he  had  a couple  every  week, 
and  one  regularly  on  that  evening,  to 
the  great  mirth  and  enjoyment  both  of 
himself  and  his  instructress.  To  relate 
how  it  was  a long  time  before  his  mod- 
esty could  be  so  far  prevailed  upon  as 
to  admit  of  his  sitting  down  in  the  par- 
lor, in  the  presence  of  an  unknown  gen- 
tleman, — how,  when  he  did  sit  down, 
he  tucked  up  his  sleeves  and  squared 
his  elbows  and  put  his  face  close  to  the 
copy-book  and  squinted  horribly  at  the 
lines,  — how,  from  the  very  first  mo- 
ment of  having  the  pen  in  his  hand,  he 
began  to  wallow  in  blots,  and  to  daub 
himself  with  ink  up  to  the  very  roots  of 
his  hair, — how,  if  he  did  by  accident 
form  a letter  properly,  he  immediately 
smeared  it  out  again  with  his  arm  in 
his  preparations  to  make  another, — 
how,  at  every  fresh  mistake,  there  was 
a fresh  burst  of  merriment  from  the 
child  and  a louder  and  not  less  hearty 
laugh  from  poor  Kit  himself,  — and 
how  there  was  all  the  way  through, 
notwithstanding,  a gentle  wish  on  her 
art  to  teach,  and  an  anxious  desire  on 
is  to  learn  ; — to  relate  all  these  partic- 
ulars would  no  doubt  occupy  more 
space  and  time  than  they  deserve.  It 
will  be  sufficient  to  say  that  the  lesson 
was  given,  — that  evening  passed  and 
night  came  on, — that  the  old  man 
again  grew  restless  and  impatient,  — 
that  he  quitted  the  house  secretly  at 
the  same  hour  as  before, — and  that 
the  child  was  once  more  left  alone  with- 
in its  gloomy  walls. 

And  now,  that  I have  carried  this 


history  so  far  in  my  own  character  and 
introduced  these  personages  to  the 
reader,  I shall  for  the  convenience  of 
the  narrative  detach  myself  from  its  fur- 
ther course,  and  leave  those  who  have 
prominent  and  necessary  parts  in  it  ta 
speak  and  act  for  themselves. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Quilp  resided  on  Tow- 
er Hill  ; and  in  her  bower  on  Tower 
Hill  Mrs.  Quilp  was  left  to  pine  the 
absence  of  her  lord,  when  he  quitted 
her  on  the  business  which  he  has  been 
already  seen  to  transact. 

Mr.  Quilp  could  scarcely  be  said  to  be 
of  any  particular  trade  or  calling,  though 
his  pursuits  were  diversified  and  his  oc- 
cupations numerous.  He  collected  the 
rents  of  whole  colonies  of  filthy  streets 
and  alleys  by  the  water-side,  advanced 
money  to  the  seamen  and  petty  officers 
pf  merchant  vessels,  had  a share  in  the 
ventures  of  divers  mates  of  East-India- 
men,  smoked  his  smuggled  cigars  un- 
der the  very  nose  of  the  Custom  House, 
and  made  appointments  on  ’Change 
with  men  in  glazed  hats  and  round  jack- 
ets pretty  well  every  day.  On  the  Surrey 
side  of  the  river  was  a small,  rat-infest- 
ed, dreary  yard  called  “ Quilp’s  Wharf,” 
in  which  were  a little  wooden  counting- 
house  burrowing  all  awry  in  the  dust 
as  if  it  had  fallen  from  the  clouds  and 
ploughed  into  the  ground ; a few  frag- 
ments of  rusty  anchors,  several  large 
iron  rings,  some  piles  of  rotten  wood, 
and  two  or  three  heaps  of  old  sheet 
copper,  crumpled,  cracked,  and  bat- 
tered. On  Quilp’s  Wharf,  Daniel  Quilp 
was  a ship-breaker ; yet  to  judge  from 
these  appearances  he  must  either  have 
been  a ship-breaker  on  a very  small 
scale,  or  have  broken  his  ships  up  very 
small  indeed.  Neither  did  the  place 
present  any  extraordinary  aspect  of  life 
or  activity,  as  its  only  human  occupant 
was  an  amphibious  boy  in  a canvas 
suit,  whose  sole  change  of  occupation 
was  from  sitting  on  the  head  of  a pile 
and  throwing  stones  into  the  mud  when 
the  tide  was  out,  to  standing  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  gazing  listlessly  on 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


27 


the  motion  and  on  the  bustle  of  the 
river  at  high-water. 

The  dwarfs  lodging  on  Tower  Hill 
comprised,  besides  the  needful  accom- 
modation for  himself  and  Mrs.  Quilp,  a 
small  sleeping  closet  for  that  lady’s 
mother,  who  resided  with  the  couple 
and  waged  perpetual  war  with  Daniel ; 
of  whom,  notwithstanding,  she  stood  in 
no  slight  dread.  Indeed,  the  ugly  crea- 
ture contrived,  by  some  means  or  other, 
— whether  by  his  ugliness  or  his  fe- 
rocity or  his  natural  cunning  is  no  great 
matter,  — to  impress  with  a wholesome 
fear  of  his  anger  most  of  those  with 
whom  he  was  brought  into  daily  con- 
tact and  communication.  Over  nobody 
had  he  such  complete  ascendency  as 
Mrs.  Quilp,  herself — a pretty  little  mild- 
spoken,  blue-eyed  woman,  who,  having 
allied  herself  in  wedlock  to  the  dwarf 
in  one  of  those  strange  infatuations  of 
which  examples  are  by  no  means  scarce, 
erformed  a sound  practical  penance  for 
er  folly  every  day  of  her  life. 

It  has  been  said  that  Mrs.  Quilp  was 
pining  in  her  bower.  In  her  bower  she 
was,  but  not  alone,  for  besides  the  old 
lady,  her  mother,  of  whom  mention  has 
recently  been  made,,  there  were  present 
some  half-dozen  ladies  of  the  neighbor- 
hood who  had  happened  by  a strange 
accident  (and  also  by  a little  under- 
standing among  themselves)  to  drop  in 
one  after  another,  just  aboat  tea-time. 
This  being  a season  favorable  to  con- 
versation, and  the  room  being  a cool, 
shady,  lazy  kind  of  place,  with  some 
plants  at  the  open  window  shutting  out 
the  dust,  and  interposing  pleasantly 
enough  between  the  tea-table  within 
and  the  old  Tower  without,  it  is  no 
wonder  that  the  ladies  felt  an  inclina- 
tion to  talk  and  linger,  especially  when 
there  are  taken  into  account  the  addi- 
tional inducements  of  fresh  butter,  new 
bread,  shrimps,  and  water-cresses. 

Now,  the  ladies  being  together  under 
these  circumstances,  it  was  extremely 
natural  that  the  discourse  should  turn 
upon  the  propensity  of  mankind  to  tyr- 
annize over  the  weaker  sex,  and  the  duty 
that  devolved  upon  the  weaker  sex  to 
resist  that  tyranny  and  assert  their  rights 
and  dignity.  It  was  natural  for  four 
reasons  : firstly,  because  Mrs.  Quilp, 


being  a young  woman  and  notoriously 
under  the  dominion  of  her  husband, 
ought  to  be  excited  to  rebel  ; secondly, 
because  Mrs.  Quilp’s  parent  was  known 
to  be  laudably  shrewish  in  her  disposi- 
tion, and  inclined  to  resist  male  author- 
ity ; thirdly,  because  each  visitor  wished 
to  show  for  herself  how  superior  she 
was  in  this  respect  to  the  generality  of 
her  sex  ; and,  fourthly,  because  the  com- 
pany, being  accustomed  to  scandalize 
each  other  in  pairs,  were  deprived  of 
their  usual  subject  of  conversation,  now 
that  they  were  all  assembled  in  close 
friendship,  and  had  consequently  no 
better  employment  than  to  attack  the 
common  enemy. 

Moved  by  these  considerations,  a 
stout  lady  opened  the  proceedings  by 
inquiring,  with  an  air  of  great  concern 
and  sympathy,  how  Mr.  Quilp  was ; 
whereunto  Mr.  Quilp’s  wife’s  mother 
replied,  sharply,  “ O,  he  was  well 
enough,  — nothing  much  was  ever  the 
matter  with  him, — and  ill  weeds  were 
sure  to  thrive.’'  All  the  ladies  then 
sighed  in  concert,  shook  their  heads 
gravely,  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Quilp  as  at 
a martyr. 

“Ah!”  said  the  spokeswoman,  “I 
wish  you ’d  give  her  a little  of  your  ad- 
vice, Mrs.  Jiniwin,”  — Mrs.  Quilp  had 
been  a Miss  Jiniwin,  it  should  be  ob- 
served. “ Nobody  knows  better  than 
you,  ma’am,  what  us  women  owe  to 
ourselves.” 

.“.Owe  indeed,  ma’am  !”  replied  Mrs. 
Jiniwin.  “When  my  poor  husband, 
her  dear  father,  was  alive,  if  he  had 
ever  ventur’d  a cross  word  to  me,  I ’d 
have  — ” the  good  old  lady  did  not 
finish  the  sentence,  but  she  twisted  off 
the  head  of  a shrimp  with  a vindictive- 
ness which  seemed  to  imply  that  the 
action  was  in  some  degree  a substitute 
for  words.  In  this  light  it  was  clearly 
understood  by  the  other  party,  who  im- 
mediately replied  with  great  approba- 
tion, “ You  quite  enter  into  my  feelings, 
ma’am,  and  it ’s  jist  what  I ’d  do  my- 
self.” 

“ But  you  have  no  call  to  do  it,”  said 
Mrs.  Jiniwin.  “ Luckily  for  you,  you 
have  no  more  occasion  to  do  it  than  I 
had.” 

“ No  woman  need  have,  if  she  Was 


28 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


true  to  herself,”  rejoined  the  stout 
lady. 

“Do  you  hear  that,  Betsy?”  said 
Mrs.  Jiniwin,  in  a warning  voice. 
“ How  often  have  I said  the  very  same 
words  to  you,  and  almost  gone  down  on 
my  knees  when  I spoke  ’em  ! ” 

Poor  Mrs.  Quilp,  who  had  looked  in 
a state  of  helplessness  from  one  face  of 
condolence  to  another,  colored,  smiled, 
and  shook  her  head  doubtfully.  This 
was  the  signal  for  a general  clamor, 
which,  beginning  in  a low  murmur,  grad- 
ually swelled  into  a great  noise  in  which 
everybody  spoke  at  once,  and  all  said 
that  she,  being  a young  woman,  had  no 
right  to  set  up  her  opinions  against  the 
experiences  of  those  who  knew  so  much 
better ; that  it  was  very  wrong  of  her 
not  to  take  the  advice  of  people  who 
had  nothing  at  heart  but  her  good ; 
that  it  was  next  door  to  being  down- 
right ungrateful  to  conduct  herself  in 
that  manner  ; that  if  she  had  no  respect 
for  herself,  she  ought  to  have  some  for 
other  women,  all  of  whom  she  com- 
promised by  her  meekness  ; and  that  if 
she  had  no  respect  for  other  women, 
the  time  would  come  when  other  wo- 
men would  have  no  respect  for  her; 
and  she  would  be  very  sorry  for  that, 
they  could  tell  her.  Having  dealt  out 
these  admonitions,  the  ladies  fell  to  a 
more  powerful  assault  than  they  had  yet 
made  upon  the  mixed  tea,  new  bread, 
fresh  butter,  shrimps,  and  water-cresses, 
and  said  that  their  vexation  was  so  great 
to  see  her  going  on  like  that,  that  they 
could  hardly  bring  themselves  to  eat  a 
single  morsel. 

“It ’s  all  very  fine  to  talk,”  said  Mrs. 
Quilp  with  much  simplicity,  “ but  I 
know  that  if  I was  to  die  to-morrow, 
Quilp  could  marry  anybody  he  pleased, 
— now  that  he  could,  I know  ! ” 

There  was  quite  a scream  of  indig- 
nation at  this  idea.  Marry  whom  he 
pleased  ! They  would  like  to  see  him 
dare  to  think  of  marrying  any  of  them  ; 
they  would  like  to  see  the  faintest  ap- 
proach to  such  a thing.  One  lady  (a 
widow)  was  quite  certain  she  should 
stab  him  if  he  hinted  at  it. 

“Very  well,”  said  Mrs.  Quilp,  nod- 
ding her  head,  “ as  I said  just  now, 
it ’s  very  easy  to  talk,  but  I say  again 


that  I know  — that  I ’m  sure  — Quilp 
has  such  a way  with  him  when  he 
likes,  that  the  best-looking  woman  here 
couldn’t  refuse  him  if  I was  dead,  and 
she  was  free,  and  he  chose  to  make 
love  to  her.  Come  ! ” 

Everybody  bridled  up  at  this  re- 
mark, as  much  as  to  say,  “ I know  you 
mean  me.  Let  him  try,  — that’s  all.” 
And  yet  for  some  hidden  reason  they 
were  all  angry  with  the  widow,  and  each 
lady  whispered  in  her  neighbor’s  ear 
that  it  was  very  plain  the  said  widow 
thought  herself  the  person  referred  to, 
and  what  a puss  she  was  ! 

“ Mother  knows,”  said  Mrs.  Quilp, 
“ that  what  I say  is  quite  correct,  for 
she  often  said  so  before  we  were  mar- 
ried. Did  n’t  you  say  so,  mother?” 

This  inquiry  involved  the  respected 
lady  in  rather  a delicate  position,  for 
she  certainly  had  been  an  active  party 
in  making  her  daughter  Mrs.  Quilp, 
and,  besides,  it  was  not  supporting  the 
family  credit  to  encourage  the  idea  that 
she  had  married  a man  whom  nobody 
else  would  have.  On  the  other  hand, 
to  exaggerate  the  captivating  qualities 
of  her  son-in-law  would  be  to  weaken 
the  cause  of  revolt  in  which  all  her 
energies  were  deeply  engaged.  Beset 
by  these  opposing  considerations,  Mrs. 
J[iniwin  admitted  the  powers  of  insinua- 
tion, but  denied  the  right  to  govern,  and, 
with  a timely  compliment  to  the  stout 
lady,  brought  back  the  discussion  to  the 
point  from  which  it  had  strayed. 

“ O,  it’s  a sensible  and  proper  thing 
indeed,  what  Mrs.  George  has  said  ! ” 
exclaimed  the  old  lady.  “ If  women 
are  only  true  to  themselves  ! — But 
Betsy  is  n’t,  and  more ’s  the  shame 
and  pity.” 

“ Before  I ’d  let  a man  order  me 
about  as  Quilp  orders  her,”  said  Mrs. 
George,  — “ before  I ’d  consent  to  stand 
in  awe  of  a man  as  she  does  of  him, 
I ’d  — I ’d  kill  myself,  and  write  a let- 
ter first  to  say  he  did  it ! ” 

This  remark  being  loudly  commend- 
ed and  approved  of,  another  lady  (from 
the  Minories)  put  in  her  word. 

“ Mr.  Quilp  may  be  a very  nice  man,” 
said  this  lady,  “ and  I suppose  there ’s 
no  doubt  he  is,  because  Mrs.  Quilp 
says  he  is,  and  Mrs.  Jiniwin  says  he  is. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


and  they  ought  to  know,  or  nobody 
does.  But  still  he  is  not  quite  a — 
■what  one  calls  a handsome  man,  nor 
quite  a young  man  neither,  which  might 
be  a little  excuse  for  him  if  anything 
could  be  ; whereas  his  wife  is  young, 
and  is  good-looking,  and  is  a woman,  — 
which  is  the  great  thing  after  all.” 

This  last  clause,  being  delivered  with 
extraordinary  pathos,  elicited  a coire- 
sponding  murmur  from  the  hearers,  stim- 
ulated by  which  the  lady  went  on  to  re- 
mark, that  if  such  a husband  was  cross 
and  unreasonable  with  such  a wife, 
then  — 

“ If  he  is  ! ” interposed  the  mother, 
putting  down  her  teacup  and  brushing 
the  crumbs  out  of  her  lap,  preparatory 
to  making  a solemn  declaration.  “ If 
he  is  ! He  is  the  greatest  tyrant  that 
ever  lived,  she  dare  n’t  call  her  soul  her 
own,  he  makes  her  tremble  with  a word 
and  even  with  a look,  he  frightens  her 
to  death,  and  she  has  n’t  the  spirit  to 
give  him  a word  back,  — no,  not  a single 
word.” 

Notwithstanding  that  the  fact  had 
been  notorious  beforehand  to  all  the 
tea-drinkers,  and  had  been  discussed 
and  expatiated  on  at  every  tea-drinking 
in  the  neighborhood  for  the  last  twelve 
months,  this  official  communication  was 
no  sooner  made  than  they  all  began  to 
talk  at  once  and  to  vie  with  each  other 
in  vehemence  and  volubility.  Mrs. 
George  remarked  that  people  would 
talk,  that  people  had  often  said  this  to 
her  before,  that  Mrs.  Simmons  then 
and  there  present  had  told  her  so  twen- 
ty times,  that  she  had  always  said, 
“ No,  Henrietta  Simmons,  unless  I see 
it  with  my  own  eyes  and  hear  it  with 
my  own  ears,  I never  will  believe  it.” 
Mrs.  Simmons  corroborated  this  testi- 
mony and  added  strong  evidence  of  her 
own.  The  lady  from  the  Minories  re- 
counted a successful  course  of  treatment 
under  which  she  had  placed  her  own 
husband,  who,  from  manifesting  one 
month  after  marriage  unequivocal  symp- 
toms of  the  tiger,  had  by  this  means 
become  subdued  into  a perfect  lamb. 
Another  lady  recounted  her  own  per- 
sonal struggle  and  final  triumph,  in  the 
course  whereof  she  had  found  it  neces- 
sary to  call  in  her  mother  and  two 


29 

aunts,  and  to  weep  incessantly  night 
and  day  for  six  weeks.  A third,  who 
in  the  general  confusion  could  secure 
no  other  listener,  fastened  herself  upon 
a young  woman  still  unmarried  who 
happened  to  be  amongst  them,  and  con- 
jured her,  as  she  valued  her  own  peace 
of  mind  and  happiness,  to  profit  by  this 
solemn  occasion,  to  take  example  from 
the  weakness  of  Mrs.  Quilp,  and  from 
that  time  forth  to  direct  her  whole 
thoughts  to  taming  and  subduing  the 
rebellious  spirit  of  man.  The  noise 
was  at  its  height,  and  half  the  company 
had  elevated  their  voices  into  a perfect 
shriek  in  order  to  drown  the  voices  of 
the  other  half,  when  Mrs.  J ini  win  was 
seen  to  change  color  and  shake  her  fore- 
finger stealthily,  as  if  exhorting  them  to 
silence.  Then,  and  not  until  then,  Dan- 
iel Quilp  himself,  the  cause  and  occa- 
sion of  all  this  clamor,  was  observed  to 
be  in  the  room,  looking  on  and  listen- 
ing with  profound  attention. 

“Go  on,  ladies,  go  on,”  said  Daniel. 
“ Mrs.  Quilp,  pray  ask  the  ladies  to 
stop  to  supper,  and  have  a couple  of 
lobsters  and  something  light  and  pala- 
table.” 

“I  — I — didn’t  ask  them  to  tea, 
Quilp,”  stammered  his  wife.  “ It ’s 
quite  an  accident.” 

“ So  much  the  better,  Mrs.  Quilp ; 
these  accidental  parties  are  always  the 
pleasantest,”  said  the  dwarf,  rubbing 
his  hands  so  hard  that  he  seemed  to  be 
engaged  in  manufacturing,  of  the  dirt 
with  which  they  were  encrusted,  little 
charges  for  popguns.  “What!  Not 
going,  ladies!  You  are  not  going, 
surely ! ” 

His  fair  enemies  tossed,  their  heads 
slightly  as  they  sought  their  respective 
bonnets  and  shawls,  but  left  all  verbal 
contention  to  Mrs.  Jiniwin,  who,  finding 
herself  in  the  position  of  champion, 
made  a faint  struggle  to  sustain  the 
character. 

“ And  why  not  stop  to  supper,  Quilp,” 
said  the  old  lady,  “if  my  daughter  had 
a mind  ? ” 

“ To  be  sure,”  rejoined  DanieL 
“ Why  not  ? ” 

“ There ’s  nothing  dishonest  or  wrong 
in  a supper,  I hope?”  said  Mrs.  Jini- 
win. 


3° 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“ Surely  not,”  returned  the  dwarf. 
“ Why  should  there  be  ? Nor  anything 
unwholesome  either,  unless  there  ’s  lob- 
ster-salad or  prawns,  which  I ’m  told 
are  not  good  for  digestion.” 

“ And  you  wouldn’t  like  your  wife  to 
be  attacked  with  that,  or  anything  else 
that  would  make  her  uneasy,  would 
you  ?”  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

“ Not  for  a score  of  worlds,”  replied 
the  dwarf  with  a grin.  ‘‘Not  even  to 
have  a score  of  mothers-in-law  at  the 
same  time,  — and  what  a blessing  that 
would  be  ! ” 

‘‘My  daughter’s  your  wife,  Mr.  Quilp, 
certainly,”  said  the  old  lady  with  a 
giggle,  meant  for  satirical  and  to  imply 
that  he  needed  to  be  reminded  of  the 
fact,  — “ your  wedded  wife.” 

“ So  she  is  certainly.  So  she  is,”  ob- 
served the  dwarf. 

“ And  she  has  a right  to  do  as  she 
likes,  I hope,  Quilp,”  said  the  old  lady, 
trembling,  partly  with  anger  and  partly 
with  a secret  fear  of  her  impish  son-in- 
law. 

“ Hope  she  has  ! ” he  replied.  “ Oh  ! 
Don’t  you  know  she  has?  Don’t  you 
know  she  has,  Mrs.  Jiniwin?” 

“ I know  she  ought  to  have,  Quilp, 
and  would  have  if  she  was  of  my  way  of 
thinking.” 

“ Why  ain’t  you  of  your  mother’s  way 
of  thinking,  my  dear?”  said  the  dwarf, 
turning  round  and  addressing  his  wife. 
“ Why  don’t  you  always  imitate  your 
mother,  my  dear?  She ’s  the  ornament 
of  her  sex,  — your  father  said  so  every 
day  of  his  life,  I am  sure  he  did.” 

“ Her  father  was  a blessed  creetur, 
Quilp,  and  worth  twenty  thousand  of 
some  people,”  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin, — 
“ twenty  hundred  million  thousand.” 

“ I should  like  to  have  known  him,” 
remarked  the  dwarf.  “ I dare  say  he 
was  a blessed  creature  then  ; but  I ’m 
sure  he  is  now.  It  was  a happy  re- 
lease. I believe  he  had  suffered  a long 
time  ? ” 

The  old  lady  gave  a gasp,  but  noth- 
ing came  of  it.  Quilp  resumed,  with 
the  same  malice  in  his  eye  and  the 
same  sarcastic  politeness  on  his  tongue. 

“ You  look  ill,  Mrs.  Jiniwin  ; I know 
you  have  been  exciting  yourself  too 
much, — talking  perhaps,  for  it  is  your 


weakness.  Go  to  bed.  Do  go  to 
bed.” 

“ I shall  go  when  I please,  Quilp, 
and  not  before.” 

“ But  please  to  go  now.  Do  please  to 
go  now,”  said  the  dwarf. 

The  old  woman  looked  angrily  at 
him,  but  retreated  as  he  advanced,  and, 
falling  back  before  him,  suffered  him  to 
shut  the  door  upon  her  and  bolt  her  out 
among  the  guests,  who  were  by  this 
time  crowding  down  stairs.  Being  left 
alone  with  his  wife,  who  sat  trembling 
in  a corner  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ground,  the  little  man  planted  himself 
before  her,  at  some  distance,  and,  fold- 
ing his  arms,  looked  steadily  at  her  for 
a long  time  without  speaking. 

“ O you  nice  creature  ! ” were  the 
words  with  which  he  broke  silence ; 
smacking  his  lips  as  if  this  were  no  fig- 
ure of  speech,  and  she  were  actually  a 
sweetmeat.  **  O you  precious  darling  ! 
O you  de-licious  charmer  ! ” 

Mrs.  Quilp  sobbed;  and,  knowing  the 
nature  of  her  pleasant  lord,  appeared 
quite  as  much  alarmed  by  these  compli- 
ments as  she  would  have  been  by  the 
most  extreme  demonstrations  of  vio- 
lence. 

“ She ’s  such,”  said  the  dwarf,  with  a 
ghastly  grin,  — “ such  a jewel,  such  a 
diamond,  such  a pearl,  such  a ruby, 
such  a golden  casket  set  with  gems  of 
all  sorts  ! She ’s  such  a treasure  1 I ’m 
so  fond  of  her  ! ” 

The  poor  little  woman  shivered  from 
head  to  foot ; and,  raising  her  eyes  to  his 
face  with  an  imploring  look,  suffered 
them  to  droop  again,  and  sobbed  once 
more. 

“ The  best  of  her  is,”  said  the  dwarf, 
advancing  with  a sort  of  skip,  which, 
what  with  the  crookedness  of  his  legs, 
the  ugliness  of  his  face,  and  the  mockery 
of  his  manner,  was  perfectly  goblin- 
like,— ‘‘the  best  of  her  is  that  she’s 
so  meek,  and  she ’s  so  mild,  and  she 
never  has  a will  of  her  own,  and  she  has 
such  an  insinuating  mother  ! ” 

Uttering  these  latter  words  with  a 
gloating  maliciousness,  within  a hun- 
dred degrees  of  which  no  one  but  him- 
self could  possibly  approach,  Mr.  Quilp 
planted  his  two  hands  on  his  knees,  and, 
straddling  his  legs  out  very  wide  apart, 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


3* 


stooped  slowly  down,  and  down,  and 
down,  until,  by  screwing  his  head  very 
much  on  one  side,  he  came  between  his 
wife’s  eyes  and  the  floor. 

“ Mrs.  Quilp!” 

“Yes,  Quilp.” 

“Am  I nice  to  look  at?.  Should  I 
be  the  handsomest  creature  in  the  world 
if  I had  but  whiskers  ? Am  I quite  a 
lady’s  man  as  it  is?  — am  I,  Mrs. 
Quilp?” 

Mrs.  Quilp  dutifully  replied,  “Yes, 
Quilp,”  and,  fascinated  by  his  gaze, 
remained  looking  timidly  at  him,  while 
he  treated  her  with  a succession  of  such 
horrible  grimaces  as  none  but  himself 
and  nightmares  had  the  power  of  assum- 
ing. During  the  whole  of  this  perform- 
ance, which  was  somewhat  of  the  long- 
est, he  preserved  a dead  silence,  ex- 
cept when,  by  an  unexpected  skip  or 
leap,  he  made  his  wife  start  backward 
with  an  irrepressible  shriek.  Then  he 
chuckled. 

“Mrs.  Quilp,”  he  said  at  last. 

“Yes,  Quilp,”  she  meekly  replied. 

Instead  of  pursuing  the  theme  he  had 
in  his  mind,  Quilp  rose,  folded  his  arms 
again,  and  looked  at  her  more  sternly 
than  before,  while  she  averted  her  eyes 
and  kept  them  on  the  ground. 

“ Mrs.  Quilp.” 

“Yes,  Quilp.’’ 

“ If  ever  you  listen  to  these  beldames 
again,  I ’ll  bite  you.” 

With  this  laconic  threat,  which  he  ac- 
companied with  a snarl  that  gave  him 
the  appearance  of  being  particularly  in 
earnest,  Mr.  Quilp  bade  her  clear  the 
tea-board  away,  and  bring  the  rum. 
The  spirit  being  set  before  him  in  a 
huge  case-bottle,  which  had  originally 
come  out  of  some  ship’s  locker,  he  or- 
dered cold  water  and  the  box  of  cigars  ; 
and,  these  being  supplied,  he  settled 
himself  in  an  arm-chair  with  his  large 
head  and  face  squeezed  up  against  the 
back,  and  his  little  legs  planted  on  the 
table. 

“ Now,  Mrs.  Quilp,”  he  said  ; “ I 
feel  in  a smoking  humor,  and  shall 
probably  blaze  away  all  night.  But  sit 
where  you  are,  if  you  please,  in  case  I 
want  you.” 

His  wife  returned  no  other  reply  than 
the  customary,  “ Yes,  Quilp,”  and  the 


small  lord  of  the  creation  took  his  first 
cigar  and  mixed  his  first  glass  of  grog. 
The  sun  went  down  and  the  stars  peeped 
out,  the  Tower  turned  from  its  own 
proper  colors  to  gray  and  from  gray  to 
black,  the  room  became  perfectly  dark 
and  the  end  of  the  cigar  a deep  fiery 
red,  but  still  Mr.  Quilp  went  on  smok- 
ing and  drinking  in  the  same  position, 
and  staring  listlessly  out  of  window  with 
the  dog-like  smile  always  on  his  face, 
save  when  Mrs.  Quilp  made  some  in- 
voluntary movement  of  restlessness  or 
fatigue;  and  then  it  expanded  into  a 
grin  of  delight. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Whether  Mr.  Quilp  took  any  sleep 
by  snatches  of  a few  winks  at  a time,  or 
whether  he  sat  with  his  eyes  wide  open 
all  night  long,  certain  it  is  that  he  kept 
his  cigar  alight,  and  kindled  every  fresh 
one  from  the  ashes  of  that  which  was 
nearly  consumed,  without  requiring  the 
assistance  of  a candle.  Nor  did  the 
striking  of  the  clocks,  hour  after  hour, 
appear  to  inspire  him  with  any  sense 
of  drowsiness  or  any  natural  desire  to 
go  to  rest,  but  rather  to  increase  his 
wakefulness,  which  he  showed,  at  every 
such  indication  of  the  progress  of  the 
night,  by  a suppressed  cackling  in  his 
throat,  and  a motion  of  his  shoulders, 
like  one  who  laughs  heartily,  but  at  the 
same  time  slyly  and  by  stealth. 

At  length  the  day  broke,  and  poor 
Mrs.  Quilp,  shivering  with  the  cold  of 
early  morning  and  harassed  by  fatigue 
and  want  of  sleep,  was  discovered  sit- 
ting patiently  on  her  chair,  raising  her 
eyes  at  intervals  in  mute  appeal  to  the 
compassion  and  clemency  of  her  lord, 
and  gently  reminding  him,  by  an  occa- 
sional cough,  that  she  was  still  unpar- 
doned and  that  her  penance  had  been  of 
long  duration.  But  her  dwarfish  spouse 
still  smoked  his  cigar  and  drank  his 
rum  without  heeding  her ; and  it  was 
not  until  the  sun  had  some  time  risen, 
and  the  activity  and  noise  of  city  day 
were  rife  in  the  street,  that  he  deigned 
to  recognize  her  presence  by  any  word 
or  sign.  He  might  not  have  done  so 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


even  then,  but  for  certain  impatient 
tappings  at  the  door,  which  seemed  to 
denote  that  some  pretty  hard  knuckles 
were  actively  engaged  upon  the  other 
side. 

“ Why,  dear  me  ! ” he  said,  looking 
round  with  a malicioas  grin,  “ it ’s  day  ! 
Open  the  door,  sweet  Mrs.  Quilp  ! ” 

His  obedient  wife  withdrew  the  bolt, 
and  her  lady  mother  entered. 

Now,  Mrs.  Jiniwin  bounced  into  the 
room  with  great  impetuosity  ; for,  sup- 
posing her  son-in-law  to  be  still  abed, 
she  had  come  to  relieve  her  feelings  by 
pronouncing  a strong  opinion  upon  his 
general  conduct  and  character.  Seeing 
that  he  was  up  and  dressed,  and  that 
the  room  appeared  to  have  been  occu- 
pied ever  since  she  quitted  it  on  the 
previous  evening,  she  stopped  short,  in 
some  embarrassment. 

Nothing  escaped  the  hawk’s  eye  of 
the  ugly  little  man,  who,  perfectly  un- 
derstanding what  passed  in  the  old 
lady’s  mind,  turned  uglier  still  in  the 
fulness  of  his  satisfaction,  and  bade  her 
good  morning,  with  a leer  of  triumph. 

“ Why,  Betsy,”  said  the  old  woman, 
“you  have  n’t  been  a — you  don’t  mean 
to  say  you ’ve  been  a — ” 

“Sitting  up  all  night?”  said  Quilp, 
supplying  the  conclusion  of  the  sen- 
tence. “ Yes,  she  has  ! ” 

“ All  night  ! ” cried  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 
“Ay,  all  night.  Is  the  dear  old 
lady  deaf?”  said  Quilp,  with  a smile 
of  which  a frown  was  part.  “ Who 
says  man  and  wife  are  bad  company  ? 
Ha,  ha  ! The  time  has  flown,” 

“ You  ’re  a brute  ! ” exclaimed  Mrs. 
Jiniwin. 

“ Come,  come,”  said  Quilp,  wilfully 
misunderstanding  her,  of  course,  “ you 
must  n’t  call  her  names.  She ’s  mar- 
ried now,  you  know.  And  though  she 
did  beguile  the  time  and  keep  me  from 
my  bed,  you  must  not  be  so  tenderly 
careful  of  me  as  to  be  out  of  humor 
with  her.  Bless  you  fora  dear  old  lady. 
Here  ’s  your  health  ! ” 

“ I am  rmich  obliged  to  you,”  re- 
turned the  old  woman,  testifying  by  a 
certain  restlessness  in  her  hands  a ve- 
hement desire  to  shake  her  matronly 
fist  at  her  son-in-law.  “ Q,  I ’m  very 
. much  obliged  to  you  1 ” 


“ Grateful  soul ! ” cried  the  dwarf. 
“ Mrs.  Quilp.” 

“Yes,  Quilp,”  said  the  timid  sufferer. 

“ Help  your  mother  to  get  breakfast, 
Mrs.  Quilp.  I am  going  to  the  wharf 
this  morning;  the  earlier  the  better, 
so  be  quick.” 

Mrs.  Jiniwin  made  a faint  demon- 
stration of  rebellion  by  sitting  down  in 
a chair  near  the  door  and  folding  her 
arms  as  if  in  a resolute  determination 
to  do  nothing.  But  a few  whispered 
words  from  her  daughter,  and  a kind  in- 
quiry from  her  son-in-law  whether  she 
felt  faint,  with  a hint  that  there  was 
abundance  of  cold  water  in  the  next 
apartment,  routed  these  symptoms  ef- 
fectually, and  she  applied  herself  to 
the  prescribed  preparations  with  sullen 
diligence. 

While  they  were  in  progress,  Mr. 
Quilp  withdrew  to  the  adjoining  room, 
and,  turning  back  his  coat-collar,  pro- 
ceeded to  smear  his  countenance  with  a 
damp  towel  of  very  unwholesome  ap- 
pearance, which  made  his  complexion 
rather  more  cloudy  than  it  had  been 
before.  But,  while  he  was  thus  en- 
gaged, his  caution  and  inquisitiveness 
did  not  forsake  him.  With  a face  as 
sharp  and  cunning  as  ever,  he  often 
stopped,  even  in  this  short  process,  arid 
stood  listening  for  any  conversation  in 
the  next  room  of  which  he  might  be 
the  theme. 

“ Ah  ! ” he  said  after  a short  effort  of 
attention,  “ it  was  not  the  towel  over 
my  ears  ; I thought  it  vras  n’t.  I ’m  a 
little  hunchy  viliain  and  a monster,  am 
I,  Mrs.  Jiniwin  ? Oh  ! ” _ 

The  pleasure  of  this  discovery  called 
up  the  old  dog-like  smile  in  full  force. 
When  he  had  quite  done  with  it,  he 
shook  himself  in  a very  dog-like  manner, 
and  rejoined  the  ladies. 

Mr.  Quilp  now  walked  up  to  the  front 
of  a looking-glass,  and  was  standing 
there,  putting  on  his  neckerchief,  when 
Mrs.  Jiniwin,  happening  to  be  behind 
him,  could  not  resist  the  inclination  she 
felt  to  shake  her  fist  at  her  tyrant. son-in- 
law.  It  was  the  gesture  of  an  instant, 
but  as  she  did  so  and  accompanied  the 
action  with  a menacing  look,  she  met 
his  eye  in  the  glass,  catching  her  in  the 
very  act.  The  same  glance  at  the  mirrpx 


QUILP,  MRS.  QUILP,  AND  MRS.  JINIWIN, 


THE  LIBRARY 
0f  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  !l«$ 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


33 


conveyed  to  her  the  reflection  of  a hor- 
ribly grotesque  and  distorted  face,  with 
the  tongue  lolling  out ; and  the  next  in- 
stant the  dwarf,  turning  about,  with  a 
perfectly  bland  and  placid  look,  inquired, 
in  a tone  of  great  affection,  — 

“ How  are  you  now,  my  dear  old  dar- 
ling?” 

Slight  and  ridiculous  as  the  incident 
was,  it  made  him  appear  such  a little 
fiend,  and  withal  such  a keen  and 
knowing  one,  that  the  old  woman  felt 
too  much  afraid  of  him  to  utter  a single 
word,  and  suffered  herself  to  be  led 
with  extraordinary  politeness  to  the 
breakfast-table.  Here  he  by  no  means 
diminished  the  impression  he  had  just 
produced,  for  he  ate  hard  eggs,  shell 
and  all,  devoured  gigantic  prawns  with 
the  heads  and  tails  on,  chewed  tobacco 
and  water-cresses  at  the  same  time  and 
with  extraordinary  greediness,  drank 
boiling  tea  without  winking,  bit  his 
fork  and  spoon  till  they  bent  again,  and 
in  short  performed  so  many  horrifying 
and  uncommon  acts  that  the  women 
were  nearly  frightened  out  of  their  wits, 
and  began  to  doubt  if  he  were  really  a 
human  creature.  At  last,  having  gone 
through  these  proceedings  and  many 
others  which  were  equally  a part  of  his 
system,  Mr.  Quilp  left  them,  reduced 
to  a very  obedient  and  humbled  state, 
and  betook  himself  to  the  river-side, 
where  he  took  boat  for  the  wharf  on 
which  he  had  bestowed  his  name. 

It  was  flood-tide  when  Daniel  Quilp 
sat  himself  down  in  the  wherry  to  cross 
to  the  opposite  shore.  A fleet  of  barges 
were  coming  lazily  on,  some  sideways, 
some  head  first,  some  stern  first ; all  in 
a wrong-headed,  dogged,  obstinate  way, 
bumping  up  against  the  larger  craft, 
running  under  the  bows  of  steamboats, 
getting  into  every  kind  of  nook  and 
corner  where  they  had  no  business,  and 
being  crunched  on  all  sides  like  so 
many  walnut-shells ; while  each,  with 
its  pair  of  long  sweeps  struggling  and 
splashing  in  the  water,  looked  like  some 
lumbering  fish  in  pain.  In  some  of  the 
vessels  at*  anchor  all  hands  were  busily 
engaged  in  coiling  ropes,  spreading  out 
sails  to  dry,  taking  in  or  discharging 
their  cargoes ; in  others,  no  life  was 
visible  but  two  or  three  tarry  boys,  and 

3 


perhaps  a barking  dog,  running  to  and 
fro  upon  the  deck  or  scrambling  up^to 
look  over  the  side  and  bark  the  louder 
for  the  view.  Coming  slowly  on  through 
the  forest  of  masts  was  a great  steam- 
ship, beating  the  water  in  short,  im- 
patient strokes  with  her  heavy  pad- 
dles, as  though  she  wanted  room  to 
breathe,  and  advancing  in  her  huge 
bulk  like  a sea  monster  among  the 
minnows  of  the  Thames.  On  either 
hand  were  long  black  tiers  of  colliers ; 
between  them  vessels  slowly  working 
out  of  harbor  with  sails  glistening  in 
the  sun,  and  creaking  noise  on  board, 
re-echoed  from  a hundred  quarters. 
The  water  and  all  upon  it  was  in  active 
motion,  dancing  and  buoyant  and  bub- 
bling up  ; while  the  old  gray  Tower  and 
piles  of  building  on  the  shore,  with 
many  a church-spire  shooting  up  be- 
tween, looked  coldly  on,  and  seemed  to 
disdain  their  chafing,  restless  neighbor. 

Daniel  Quilp,  who  was  not  much  af- 
fected by  a bright  morning,  save  in  so 
far  as  it  spared  him  the  trouble  of  car- 
rying an  umbrella,  caused  himself  to 
be  put  ashore  hard  by  the  wharf,  and 
proceeded  thither,  through  a narrow 
lane,  which,  partalcing  of  the  amphibi- 
ous character  of  its  frequenters,  had  as 
much  water  as  mud  in  its  composition, 
and  a very  liberal  supply  of  both.  Ar- 
rived at  his  destination,  the  first  object 
that  presented  itself  to  his  view  was  a 
pair  of  very  imperfectly  shod  feet  ele- 
vated in  the  air  with  the  soles  upwards, 
which  remarkable  appearance  was  ref- 
erable to  the  boy,  who,  being  of  an 
eccentric  spirit,  and  having  a natural 
taste  for  tumbling,  was  now  standing  on 
his  head,  and  contemplating  the  aspect 
of  the  river  under  these  uncommon  cir- 
cumstances. He  was  speedily  brought 
on  his  heels  by  the  sound  of  his  mas- 
ter’s voice,  and  as  soon  as  his  head 
was  in  its  right  position,  Mr.  Quilp,  to 
speak  expressively  in  the  absence  of  a 
better  verb,  “ punched  it  ” for  him. 

“ Come,  you  let  me  alone,”  said  the 
boy,  parrying  Quilp’s  hand  with  both  his 
elbows  alternately.  “ You  ’ll  get  some- 
thing you  won’t  like  if  you  don’t,  and  so 
I tell  you.” 

“ You  dog,”  snarled  Quilp,  “ I ’ll  beat 
you  with  an  iron  rod,  I ’ll  scratch  you 


34 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


with  a rusty  nail,  I ’ll  pinch  your  eyes, 
if  you  talk  to  me  — I will ! ” 

With  these  threats  he  clenched  his 
hand  again,  and  dexterously  diving  in 
between  the  elbows,  and  catching  the 
boy’s  head  as  it  dodged  from  side  to 
side,  gave  it  three  or  four  good  hard 
knocks.  Having  now  carried  his  point 
and  insisted  on  it,  he  left  off. 

“ You  won’t  do  it  again,’]  said  the  boy, 
nodding  his  head  and  drawing  back,  with 
the  elbows  ready  in  case  of  the  worst ; 
“now!” 

“ Stand  still,  you  dog,”  said  Quilp. 
“ I won’t  do  it  again,  because  I ’ve 
done  it  as  often  as  I want.  Here. 
Take  the  key.” 

“ Why  don’t  you  hit  one  of  your 
size?”  said  the  boy,  approaching  very 
slowly. 

“ Where  is  there  one  of  my  size,  you 
dog  ? ” returned  Quilp.  “ Take  the  key, 
or  I ’ll  brain  you  with  it,”  — indeed  he 
gave  him  a smart  tap  with  the  handle  as 
he  spoke.  “ Now,  open  the  counting- 
house.” 

The  boy  sulkily  complied,  muttering 
at  first,  but  desisting  when  he  looked 
round  and  saw  that  Quilp  was  follow- 
ing him  with  a steady  look.  And  here 
it  may  be  remarked,  that  between  this 
boy  and  the  dwarf  there  existed  a 
strange  kind  of  mutual  liking.  How 
born  or  bred,  or  how  nourished  upon 
blows  and  threats  on  one  side,  and  re- 
torts and  defiances  on  the  other,  is  not 
to  the  purpose.  Quilp  would  certainly 
suffer  nobody  to  contradict  him  but 
the  boy,  and  the  boy  would  assuredly 
not  have  submitted  to  be  so  knocked 
about  by  anybody  but  Quilp,  when  he 
had  the  power  to  run  away  at  any 
time  he  chose. 

“Now,”  said  Quilp,  passing  into  the 
wooden  counting-house,  “you  mind  the 
wharf.  Stand  upon  your  head  again,  and 
I ’ll  cut  one  of  your  feet  off.” 

The  boy  made  no  answer,  but  directly 
Quilp  had  shut  himself  in,  stood  on  his 
head  before  the  door,  then  walked  on  his 
hands  to  the  back  and  stood  on  his  head 
there,  and  then  to  the  opposite  side  and 
repeated  the  performance.  There  were, 
indeed,  four  sides  to  the  counting-house, 
but  he  avoided  that  one  where  the  win- 
dow was,  deeming  it  probable  that  Quilp 


would  be  looking  out  of  it.  This  was 
prudent,  for  in  point  of  fact  the  dwarf, 
knowing  his  disposition,  was  lying  in 
wait  at  a little  distance  from  the  sash 
armed  with  a large  piece  of  wood, 
which,  being  rough  and  jagged  and 
studded  in  many  parts  with  broken 
nails,  might  possibly  have  hurt  him. 

It  was  a dirty  little  box,  this  counting- 
house,  with  nothing  in  it  but  an  old  rick- 
ety desk  and  two  stools,  a hat-peg,  an 
ancient  almanac,  an  inkstand  with  no  ink 
and  the  stump  of  one  pen,  and  an  eight- 
day  clock  which  had  n’t  gone  for  eigh- 
teen years  at  least,  and  of  which  the 
minute-hand  had  been  twisted  off  for 
a toothpick.  Daniel  Quilp  pulled  his 
hat  over  his  brows,  climbed  on  to  the 
desk  (which  had  a flat  top),  and,  stretch- 
ing his  short  length  upon  it,  went  to  sleep 
with  the  ease  of  an  old  practitioner  ; in- 
tending, no  doubt,  to  compensate  himself 
for  the  deprivation  of  last  night’s  rest,  by 
a long  and  sound  nap. 

Sound  it  might  have  been,  but  long  it 
was  not,  for  he  had  not  been  asleep  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  when  the  boy 
opened  the  door  and  thrust  in  his 
head,  which  was  like  a bundle  of  bad- 
ly picked  oakum.  Quilp  was  a light 
sleeper  and  started  up  directly. 

“Here ’s  somebody  for  you,”  said  the 
boy. 

“Who?” 

“ I don’t  know.” 

“ Ask  ! ” said  Quilp,  seizing  the  trifle 
of  wood  before  mentioned  and  throwing 
it  at  him  with  such  dexterity  that  it  was 
well  theboy  disappearedbefore  it  reached 
the  spot  on  which  he  had  stood.  “ Ask, 
you  dog.” 

Not  caring  to  venture  within  range  of 
such  missiles  again,  the  boy  discreetly 
sent,  in  his  stead,  the  first  cause  of  the 
interruption,  who  now  presented  herself 
at  the  door. 

“What,  Nelly  ! ” cried  Quilp. 

“Yes,”  said  the  child,  hesitating 
whether  to  enter  or  retreat ; for  the 
dwarf,  just  roused,  with  his  dishevelled 
hair  hanging  all  about  him,  and  a yel- 
low handkerchief  over  his  head,  was 
something  fearful  to  behold;  “it’s 
only  me,  sir.” 

“Come  in,”  said  Quilp,  without  get- 
ting off  the  desk.  “Come  in.  Stay. 


> 


QUILP’S  BOY 


■ 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  Or  ILLINOIS 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


35 


Just  look  out  into  the  yard,  and  see 
whether  there ’s  a boy  standing  on  his 
head.” 

“ No,  sir,”  replied  Nell.  “He’s  on 
his  feet.” 

“You’re  sure  he  is? ’’said  Quilp. 
“Well.  Now,  come  in  and  shut  the 
door.  What ’s  your  message,  Nelly?  ” 

The  child  handed  him  a letter.  Mr. 
Quilp,  without  changing  his  position 
otherwise  than  to  turn  over  a little  more 
on  his  side,  and  rest  his  chin  on  his 
hand,  proceeded  to  make  himself  ac- 
quainted with  its  contents. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Little  Nell  stood  timidly  by,  with 
her  eyes  raised  to  the  countenance  of 
Mr.  Quilp  as  he  read  the  letter,  plainly 
showing  by  her  looks  that  while  she  en- 
tertained some  fear  and  distrust  of  the 
little  man,  she  was  much  inclined  to 
laugh  at  his  uncouth  appearance  and 
grotesque  attitude.  And  yet  there  was 
visible  on  the  part  of  the  child  a painful 
anxiety  for  his  reply,  and  a conscious- 
ness of  his  power  to  render  it  disagree- 
able or  distressing,  which  was  strongly 
at  variance  with  this  impulse,  and  re- 
strained it  more  effectually  than  she 
could  possibly  have  done  by  any  efforts 
of  her  own. 

That  Mr.  Quilp  was  himself  per- 
plexed, and  that  in  no  small  degree,  by 
the  contents  of  the  letter,  was  sufficient- 
ly obvious.  Before  he  had  got  through 
the  first  two  or  three  lines,  he  began  to 
open  his  eyes  very  wide  and  to  frown 
most  horribly ; the  next  two  or  three 
caused  him  to  scratch  his  head  in  an 
uncommonly  vicious  manner  ; and  when 
he  came  to  the  conclusion  he  gave  a 
long,  dismal  whistle  indicative  of  surprise 
and  dismay.  After  folding  and  laying 
it  down  beside  him,  he  bit  the  nails  of 
all  his  ten  fingers  with  extreme  voraci- 
ty ; and,  taking  it  up  sharply,  read  it 
again.  The  second  perusal  was  to  all 
appearance  as  unsatisfactory  as  the  first, 
and  plunged  him  into  a profound  rev- 
ery  from  which  he  awakened  to  another 
assault  upon  his  nails  and  a long  stare 
at  the  child,  who,  with  her  eyes  turned 


towards  the  ground,  awaited  his  further 
pleasure. 

“ Halloa  here  ! ” he  said  at  length,  in 
a voice,  and  with  a suddenness,  which 
made  the  child  start  as  though  a gun 
had  been  fired  off  at  her  ear.  “Nelly!” 

“ Yes,  sir ! ” 

“ Do  you  know  what ’s  inside  this 
letter,  Nell?” 

“ No,  sir  ! ” 

“ Are  you  sure,  quite  sure,  quite  cer- 
tain, upon  your  soul  ? ” 

“Quite  sure,  sir.” 

“ Do  you  wish  you  may  die  if  you  do 
know,  hey?  ” said  the  dwarf. 

“ Indeed  I don’t  know,”  returned  the 
child. 

“ Well  ! ” muttered  Quilp  as  he 
marked  her  earnest  look.  “ I believe 
you.  Humph!  Gone  already?  Gone 
in  four-and-twenty  hours  ! What  the 
devil  has  he  done  with  it ! That ’s  the 
mystery  ! ” 

This  reflection  set  him  scratching  his 
head  and  biting  his  nails  once  more. 
While  he  was  thus  employed,  his  fea- 
tures gradually  relaxed  into  what  was 
with  him  a cheerful  smile,  but  which 
in  any  other  man  would  have  been  a 
ghastly  grin  of  pain  ; and  when  the 
child  looked  up  again,  she  found  that  he 
was  regarding  her  with  extraordinary 
favor  and  complacency. 

“ You  look  very  pretty  to-day,  Nelly, 
charmingly  pretty.  Are  you  tired, 
Nelly?” 

“No,  sir.  I’m  in  a hurry  to  get 
back,  for  he  will  be  anxious  while  I am 
away.” 

“There’s  no  hurry,  little  Nell,  no 
hurry  at  all,”  said  Quilp.  “ How 
should  you  like  to  be  my  number  two, 
Nelly  ? ” 

“ To  be  what,  sir?  ” 

“ My  number  two,  Nelly ; my  sec- 
ond ; my  Mrs.  Quilp,”  said  the  dwarf. 

The  child  looked  frightened,  but 
seemed  not  to  understand  him,  which 
Mr.  Quilp  observing,  hastened  to  ex- 
plain his  meaning  more  distinctly. 

“ To  be  Mrs.  Quilp  the  second,  when 
Mrs.  Quilp  the  first  is  dead,  sweet 
Nell,”  said  Quilp,  wrinkling  up  his  eyes 
and  luring  her  towards  him  with  his 
bent  forefinger,  — “ to  be  my  wife,  my 
little  cherry-cheeked,  red-lipped  wife. 


36 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


Say  that  Mrs.  Quilp  lives  five  years,  or 
only  four,  you  ’ll  be  just  the  proper  age 
forme.  Ha,  ha  ! Be  a good  girl,  Nelly, 
a very  good  girl,  and  see  if  one  of  these 
days  you  don’t  come  to  be  Mrs.  Quilp 
of  Tower  Hill.” 

So  far  from  being  sustained  and  stim- 
ulated by  this  delightful  prospect,  the 
child  shrunk  from  him,  and  trembled. 
Mr.  Quilp,  either  because  frightening 
anybody  afforded  him  a constitutional 
delight,  or  because  it  was  pleasant  to 
contemplate  the  death  of  Mrs.  Quilp 
number  one,  and  the  elevation  of  Mrs. 
Quilp  number  two  to  her  post  and  title, 
or  because  he  was  determined  for  pur- 
poses of  his  own  to  be  agreeable  and 
good-humored  at  that  particular  time, 
only  laughed  and  feigned  to  take  no 
heed  of  her  alarm. 

“ You  shall  come  with  me  to  Tower 
Hill,  and  see  Mrs.  Quilp  that  is,  di- 
rectly,” said  the  dwarf.  “ She ’s  very 
fond  of  you,  Nell,  though  not  so  fond 
as  I am.  You  shall  come  home  with 
me.” 

“ I must  go  back  indeed,”  said  the 
child.  “ He  told  me  to  return  directly 
I had  the  answer.” 

“But  you  haven’t  it,  Nelly,”  retort- 
ed the  dwarf,  “and  won’t  have  it,  and 
can’t  have  it,  until  I have  been  home, 
so  you  see  that  to  do  your  errand,  you 
must  go  with  me.  Reach  me  yonder 
hat,  my  dear,  and  we’ll  go  directly.” 
With  that  Mr.  Quilp  suffered  himself 
to  roll  gradually  off  the  desk  until  his 
short  legs  touched  the  ground,  when  he 
got  upon  them  and  led  the  way  from  the 
counting-house  to  the  wharf  outside, 
where  the  first  objects  that  presented 
themselves  were  the  boy  who  had  stood 
on  his  head  and  another  young  gentle- 
man of  about  his  own  stature,  rolling 
in  the  mud  together,  locked  in  a tight 
embrace,  and  cuffing  each  other  with 
mutual  heartiness. 

“It’s  Kit!”  cried  Nelly,  clasping 
her  hands,  — “ poor  Kit,  wrho  came  with 
me  ! O,  pray  stop  them,  Mr.  Quilp  ! ” 

“I’ll  stop  ’em,”  cried  Quilp,  diving 
into  the  little  counting-house  and  re- 
turning with  a thick  stick,  “ I ’ll  stop 
’em.  Now,  my  boys,  fight  aw'ay.  I ’ll 
fight  you  both,  I ’ll  take  both  of  you, 
both  together,  both  together!  ” 


With  w'hich  defiances  the  dwarf  flour- 
ished his  cudgel,  and  dancing  round 
the  combatants  and  treading  upon  them 
and  skipping  o^er  them,  in  a kind  of 
frenzy,  laid  about  him,  how  on  one  and 
now  on  the  other,  in  a most  desperate 
manner,  always  aiming  at  their  heads 
and  dealing  such  blows  as  none  but  the 
veriest  little  savage  would  have  inflict- 
ed. This  being  warmer  w>ork  than  they 
had  calculated  upon,  speedily  cooled  the 
courage  of  the  belligerents,  who  scram- 
bled to  their  feet  and  called  for  quarter. 

“I  ’ll  beat  you  to  a pulp,  you  dogs,” 
said  Quilp,  vainly  endeavoring  to  get 
near  either  of  them  for  a parting  blow'. 
“ I ’ll  bruise  you  till  you  ’re  copper-col- 
ored. I ’ll  break  your  faces  till  you 
haven’t  a profile  between  you,  I will.” 

“Come,  you  drop  that  stick  or  it’ll 
be  w’orse  for  you,”  said  his  boy,  dodg- 
ing round  him  and  watching  an  op- 
portunity to  rush  in;  “you  drop  that 
stick.” 

“ Come  a little  nearer,  and  I ’ll  drop 
it  on  your  skull,  you  dog,”  said  Quilp 
with  gleaming  eyes  ; “ a little  nearer,  — 
nearer  yet.” 

But  the  boy  declined  the  invitation 
until  his  master  w'as  apparently  a lit- 
tle off  his  guard,  w'hen  he  darted  in, 
and,  seizing  the  weapon,  tried  to  w’rest 
it  from  his  grasp.  Quilp,  who  was  as 
strong  as  a lion,  easily  kept  his  hold  un- 
til the  boy  was  tugging  at  it  with  his  ut- 
most powder,  when  he  suddenly  let  it  go 
and  sent  him  reeling  backwards,  so  that 
he  fell  violently  upon  his  head.  The  suc- 
cess of  this  manoeuvre  tickled  Mr.  Quilp 
beyond  description,  and  he  laughed  and 
stamped  upon  the  ground  as  at  a most 
irresistible  jest. 

“Never  mind,”  said  the  boy,  nodding 
his  head  and  rubbing  it  at  the  same 
time  ; “you  see  if  ever  I offer  to  strike 
anybody  again  because  they  say  you  ’re 
a uglier  dwarf  than  can  be  seen  any- 
wheres for  a penny,  that ’s  all.” 

“ Do  you  mean  to  say  I ’m  not,  you 
dog?  ” returned  Quilp. 

“ No  ! ” retorted  the  boy. 

“ Then  what  do  you  fight  on  my 
wharf  for,  you  villain?”  said  Quilp. 

“ Because  he  said  so,”  replied  the 
boy,  pointing  to  Kit,  “not  because  you 
ain’t.” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


37 


“Then  why  did  he  say,”  bawled  Kit, 
“that  Miss  Nelly  was  ugly,  and  that 
she  and  my  master  was  obliged  to  do 
whatever  his  master  liked?  Why  did 
he  say  that?  ” 

“ He  said  what  he  did  because  he ’s  a 
fool,  and  you  said  what  you  did  because 
you  ’re  very  wise  and  clever,  — almost 
too  clever  to  live,  unless  you’re  very 
careful  of  yourself,  Kit,”  said  Quilp 
with  great  suavity  in  his  manner,  but 
still  more  of  quiet  malice  about  his  eyes 
and  mouth.  “ Here ’s  sixpence  for  you, 
Kit.  Always  speak  the  truth.  At  all 
times.  Kit,  speak  the  truth.  Lock  the 
counting-house,  you  dog,  and  bring  me 
the  key.” 

The  other  boy,  to  whom  this  order 
was  addressed,  did  as  he  was  told,  and 
was  rewarded  for  his  partisanship  in 
behalf  of  his  master  by  a dexterous 
rap  on  the  nose  with  the  key,  which 
brought  the  water  into  his  eyes.  Then 
Mr.  Quilp  departed,  with  the  child  and 
Kit  in  a boat,  and  the  boy  revenged 
himself  by  dancing  on  his  head  at  inter- 
vals on  the  extreme  verge  of  the  wharf, 
during  the  whole  time  they  crossed  the 
river. 

There  was  only  Mrs.  Quilp  at  home, 
and  she,  little  expecting  the  return  of 
her  lord,  was  just  composing  herself  for 
a refreshing  slumber  when  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps  roused  her.  She  had  barely 
time  to  seem  to  be  occupied  in  some 
needle-work  when  he  entered,  accom- 
panied by  the  child,  having  left  Kit 
down  stairs. 

“Here’s  Nelly  Trent,  dear  Mrs. 
Quilp,”  said  her  husband.  “A  glass 
of  wine,  my  dear,  and  a biscuit,  for 
she  has  had  a long  walk.  She  ’ll  sit 
with  you,  my  soul,  while  I write  a 
letter.” 

Mrs.  Quilp  looked  tremblingly  in  her 
spouse's  face  to  know  what  this  unusual 
courtesy  might  portend,  and,  obedient 
to  the  summons  she  saw  in  his  gesture, 
followed  him  into  the  next  room. 

“ Mind  what  I say  to  you,”  whispered 
Quilp.  “ See  if  you  can  get  out  of  her 
anything  about  her  grandfather,  or  what 
they  do,  or  how  they  live,  or  what  he 
tells  her.  I ’ve  my  reasons  for  know- 
ing, if  I can.  You  women  talk  more 
freely  to  one  another  than  you  do  to 


us,  and  you  have  a soft,  mild  way  with 
you  that’ll  win  upon  her.  Do  you 
hear?” 

“Yes,  Quilp.” 

“ Go,  then.  What ’s  the  matter 
now?  ” 

“Dear  Quilp,”  faltered  his  wife,  “I 
love  the  child  — if  you  cotild  do  without 
making  me  deceive  her  — ” 

The  dwarf,  muttering  a terrible  oath, 
looked  round  as  if  for  some  weapon  with 
which  to  inflict  condign  punishment  up- 
on his  disobedient  wife.  The  submis- 
sive little  woman  hurriedly  entreated 
him  not  to  be  angry,  and  promised  to 
do  as  he  bade  her. 

“ Do  you  hear  me,”  whispered  Quilp, 
nipping  and  pinching  her  arm  ; “ worm 
yourself  into  her  secrets  ; I know  you 
can.  I ’m  listening,  recollect.  If  you  ’re 
not  sharp  enough,  I ’ll  creak  the  door, 
and  woe  betide  you  if  I have  to  creak  it 
much.  Go ! ” 

Mrs.  Quilp  departed  according  to  or- 
der. Her  amiable  husband,  ensconcing 
himself  behind  the  partly  opened  door, 
and  applying  his  ear  close  to  it,  began 
to  listen  with  a face  of  great  craftiness 
and  attention. 

Poor  Mrs.  Quilp  was  thinking,  how- 
ever, in  what  manner  to  begin,  or  what 
kind  of  inquiries  she  could  make  ; it  was 
not  until  the  door,  creaking  in  a very 
urgent  manner,  warned  her  to  proceed 
without  further  consideration,  that  the 
sound  of  her  voice  was  heard. 

“ How  very  often  you  have  come 
backwards  and  forwards  lately  to  Mr. 
Quilp,  my  dear.” 

“ I have  said  so  to  grandfather  a 
hundred  times,”  returned  Nell,  inno- 
cently. 

“And  what  has  he  said  to  that?  ” 

“ Only  sighed,  and  dropped  his  head, 
and  seemed  so  sad  and  wretched  that  if 
you  could  have  seen  him  I am  sure  you 
must  have  cried  ; you  could  not  have 
helped  it  more  than  I,  I know.  How 
that  door  creaks  ! ” 

“ It  often  does,”  returned  Mrs.  Quilp 
with  an  uneasy  glance  towards  it.  “ But 
your  grandfather,  — he  used  not  to  be 
so  wretched?” 

“ O no  ! ” said  the  child,  eagerly,  — 
“ so  different ! we  were  once  so  happy 
and  he  so  cheerful  and  contented  I 


38 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


You  cannot  think  what  a sad  change 
has  fallen  on  us  since.” 

“ I am  very,  very  sorry  to  hear  you 
speak  like  this,  my  dear ! ” said  Mrs. 
Quilp.  And  she  spoke  the  truth. 

“ Thank  you,”  returned  the  child, 
kissing  her  cheek ; “ you  are  always 
kind  to  me,  and  it  is  a pleasure  to  talk 
to  you.  I can  speak  to  no  one  else 
about  him,  but  poor  Kit.  I am  very 
happy  still,  — I ought  to  feel  happier 
perhaps  than  I do, — but  you  cannot 
think  how  it  grieves  me  sometimes  to 
see  him  alter  so.” 

“ He’ll  alter  again,  Nelly,”  said 
Mrs.  Quilp,  “ and  be  what  he  was  be- 
fore.” 

“O,  if  God  would  only  let  that  come 
about ! ” said  the  child,  with  streaming 
eyes ; “ but  it  is  a long  time  now  since 
he  first  began  to  — I thought  I saw 
that  door  moving  ! ” 

“ It ’s  the  wind,”  said’ Mrs.  Quilp, 
faintly.  “ Began  to  — ? ” 

“ To  be  so  thoughtful  and  dejected, 
and  to  forget  our  old  way  of  spending 
the  time  in  the  long  evenings,”  said  the 
child.  “ I used  to  read  to  him  by  the 
fireside,  and  he  sat  listening,  and  when 
I stopped  and  we  began  to  talk,  he  told 
me  about  my  mother,  and  how  she  once 
looked  and  spoke  just  like  me  when  she 
was  a little  child.  Then  he  used  to 
take  me  on  his  knee,  and  try  to  make 
me  understand  that  she  was  not  lying 
in  her  grave,  but  had  flown  to  a beau- 
tiful country  beyond  the  sky,  where 
nothing  died  or  ever  grew  old,  — we 
were  very  happy  once  ! ” 

“Nelly,  Nelly!”  said  the  poor  wo- 
man, “ I can’t  bear  to  see  one  as  young 
as  you  so  sorrowful.  Pray  don’t  cry.” 

“ I do  so  very  seldom,”  said  Nell, 
“ but  I have  kept  this  to  myself  a long 
time,  and  I am  not  quite  well,  I think, 
for  the  tears  come  into  my  eyes  and  I 
cannot  keep  them  back.  I don’t  mind 
telling  you  my  grief,  for  I know  you 
will  not  tell  it  to  any  one  again.” 

Mrs.  Quilp  turned  away  her  head 
and  made  no  answer. 

“Then,”  said  the  child,  “we  often 
walked  in  the  fields  and  among  the 
green  trees ; and  when  we  came  home 
at  night,  we  liked  it  better  for  being 
tired,  and  said  what  a happy  place  it 


was.  And  if  it  was  dark  and  rather 
dull,  we  used  to  say,  what  did  it  matter 
to  us,  for  it  only  made  us  remember  our 
last  walk  with  greater  pleasure,  and 
look  forward  to  our  next  one.  But 
now  we  never  have  these  walks,  and 
though  it  is  the  same  house,  it  is  darker 
and  much  more  gloomy  than  it  used  to 
be.  Indeed  ! ” 

She  paused  here,  but  though  the  door 
creaked  more  than  once,  Mrs.  Quilp 
said  nothing. 

“ Mind  you  don’t  suppose,”  said  the 
child,  earnestly,  “ that  grandfather  is 
less  kind  to  me  than  he  was.  I think 
he  loves  me  better  every  day,  and  is 
kinder  and  more  affectionate  than  he 
was  the  day  before.  You  do  not  know 
how  fond  he  is  of  me  ! ” 

“ I ’m  sure  he  loves  you  dearly,”  said 
Mrs.  Quilp. 

“ Indeed,  indeed  he  does  ! ” cried 
Nell,  “as  dearly  as  I love  him.  But  I 
have  not  told  you  the  greatest  change 
of  all,  and  this  you  must  never  breathe 
again  to  any  one.  He  has  no  sleep  or 
rest  but  that  which  he  takes  by  day  in 
his  easy-chair ; for  every  night,  and 
nearly  all  night  long,  he  is  away  from 
home.” 

“Nelly?” 

“Hush!”  said  the  child,  laying  her 
finger  on  her  lip  and  looking  round. 
“ When  he  comes  home  in  the  morning, 
which  is  generally  just  before  day,  I let 
him  in.  Last  night  he  was  very  late, 
and  it  was  quite  light.  I saw  that  his 
face  was  deadly  pale,  that  his  eyes  were 
bloodshot,  and  that  his  legs  trembled 
as  he  walked.  When  I had  gone  to 
bed  again,  I heard  him  groan.  I got 
up  and  ran  back  to  him,  and  heard  him 
say,  before  he  knew  that  I was  there, 
that  he  could  not  bear  his  life  much 
longer,  and  if  it  was  not  for  the  child, 
would  wish  to  die.  What  shall  I do ! 
O,  what  shall  I do  ! ” 

The  fountains  of  her  heart  were 
opened ; the  child,  overpowered  by  the 
weight  of  her  sorrows  and  anxieties,  by 
the  first  confidence  she  had  ever  shown, 
and  the  sympathy  with  which  her  little 
tale  had  been  received,  hid  her  face 
in  the  arms  of  her  helpless  friend,  and 
burst  into  a passion  of  tears. 

In  a few  moments  Mr.  Quilp  re- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


39 


turned,  and  expressed  the  utmost  sur- 
prise to  find  her  in  this  condition, 
which  he  did  very  naturally  and  with 
admirable  effect ; for  that  kind  of  act- 
ing had  been  rendered  familiar  to  him 
by  long  practice,  and  he  was  quite  at 
home  in  it. 

“ She ’s  tired  you  see,  Mrs.  Quilp,” 
said  the  dwarf,  squinting  in  a hideous 
manner  to  imply  that  his  wife  was  to 
follow  his  lead.  “ It ’s  a long  way 
from  her  home  to  the  wharf,  and  then 
she  was  alarmed  to  see  a couple  of 
young  scoundrels  fighting,  and  was 
timorous  on  the  water  besides.  All 
this  together  has  been  too  much  for 
her.  Poor  Nell ! ” 

Mr.  Quilp  unintentionally  adopted 
the  very  best  means  he  could  have 
devised  for  the  recovery  of  his  young 
visitor,  by  patting  her  on  the  head. 
Such  an  application  from  any  other 
hand  might  not  have  produced  a re- 
markable effect ; but  the  child  shrunk 
so  quickly  from  his  touch,  and  felt  such 
an  instinctive  desire  to  get  out  of  his 
reach,  that  she  rose  directly  and  de- 
clared herself  ready  to  return. 

“ But  you ’d  better  wait  and  dine 
with  Mrs.  Quilp  and  me,”  said  the 
dwarf. 

“ I have  been  away  too  long,  sir,  al- 
ready,” returned  Nell,  drying  her  eyes. 

“ Well,”  said  Mr.  Quilp,  “ if  you  will 
go,  you  will,  Nelly.  Here ’s  the  note. 
It ’s  only  to  say  that  I shall  see  him 
to-morrow,  or  may  be  next  day,  and 
that  I could  n ’t  do  that  little  business 
for  him  this  morning.  Good  by,  Nelly. 
Here,  you,  sir ; take  care  of  her,  d’  ye 
hear?  ” 

Kit,  who  appeared  at  the  summons, 
deigned  to  make  no  reply  to  so  need- 
less an  injunction,  and,  after  staring  at 
Quilp  in  a threatening  manner,  as  if 
he  doubted  whether  he  might  not  have 
been  the  cause  of  Nelly  shedding  tears, 
and  felt  more  than  half  disposed  to 
revenge  the  fact  upon  him  on  the  mere 
suspicion,  turned  about  and  followed 
his  young  mistress,  who  had  by  this 
time  taken  her  leave  of  Mrs.  Quilp  and 
departed. 

‘‘You  ’re  a keen  questioner,  ain’t  you, 
Mrs.  Quiip  ? ” said  the  dwarf,  turning 
upon  her  as  soon  as  they  were  left  alone. 


“ What  more  could  I do?”  returned 
his  wife,  mildly. 

“ What  more  could  you  do  ! ” sneered 
Quilp.  “ Could  n’t  you  have  done  some- 
thing less?  couldn’t  you  have  done 
what  you  had  to  do,  without  appearing 
in  your  favorite  part  of  the  crocodile, 
you  minx.” 

“ I am  very  sorry  for  the  child,  Quilp,” 
said  his  wife.  “ Surely  I ’ve  done 
enough.  I ’ve  led  her  on  to  tell  her 
secret,  when  she  supposed  we  were 
alone ; and  you  were  by,  God  forgive 
me.” 

“You  led  her  on  ! You  did  a great 
deal  truly  ! ” said  Quilp.  “ What  did 
I tell  you  about  making  me  creak  the 
door?  It’s  lucky  for  you  that  from 
what  she  let  fall  I ’ve  got  the  clew  I 
want,  for  if  I had  n’t,  I ’d  have  visited 
the  failure  upon  you.” 

Mrs.  Quilp,  being  fully  persuaded  of 
this,  made  no  reply.  Her  husband 
added,  with  some  exultation,  — 

“But  you  may  thank  your  fortunate 
stars, — the  same  stars  that  made  you 
Mrs.  Quilp,  — you  may  thank  them  that 
I ’m  upon  the  old  gentleman’s  track  and 
have  got  a new  light.  So  let  me  hear 
no  more  about  this  matter,  now,  or  at 
any  other  time,  and  don’t  get  anything 
too  nice  for  dinner,  for  I sha’n’t  be 
home  to  it.” 

So  saying,  Mr.  Quilp  put  his  hat 
on  and  took  himself  off,  and  Mrs.  Quilp, 
who  was  afflicted  beyond  measure  by 
the  recollection  of  the  part  she  had 
just  acted,  shut  herself  up  in  her  cham- 
ber, and,  smothering  her  head  in  the 
bedclothes,  bemoaned  her  fault  more 
bitterly  than  many  less  tender-hearted 
persons  would  have  mourned  a much 
greater  offence ; for,  in  the  majority 
of  cases,  conscience  is  an  elastic  and 
very  flexible  article,  which  will  bear  a 
deal  of  stretching  and  adapt  itself  to  a 
great  variety  of  circumstances.  Some 
people  by  prudent  management  and 
leaving  it  off  piece  by  piece,  like  a 
flannel  waistcoat  in  warm  weather,  even 
contrive,  in  time,  to  dispense  with  it 
altogether;  but  there  be  others  who 
can  assume  the  garment  and  throw 
it  off  at  pleasure  ; and  this,  being  the 
greatest  and  most  convenient  improve- 
ment, is  the  one  most  in  vogue. 


4° 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

“Fred,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  “re- 
member the  once  popular  melody  of 
‘ Begone,  dull  care  ’ ; fan  the  sinking 
flame  of  hilarity  with  the  wing  of  friend- 
ship ; and  pass  the  rosy  wine  ! ” 

Mr.  Richard  Swiveller’s  apartments 
were  in  the  neighborhood  of  Drury 
Lane,  and,  in  addition  to  this  conven- 
iency  of  situation,  had  the  advantage  of 
being  over  a tobacconist’s  shop,  so  that 
he  was  enabled  to  procure  a refreshing 
sneeze  at  any  time  by  merely  stepping 
out  on  the  staircase,  and  was  saved  the 
trouble  and  expense  of  maintaining  a 
\J  snuffbox.  It  was  in  these  apartments 
that  Mr.  Swiveller  made  use  of  the 
expressions  above  recorded,  for  the  con- 
solation and  encouragement  of  his  de- 
sponding friend  ; and  it  may  not  be  un- 
interesting or  improper  to  remark,  that 
even  these  brief  observations  partook 
in  a double  sense  of  the  figurative  and 
poetical  character  of  Mr.  Swiveller’s 
mind,  as  the  rosy  wine  was  in  fact  rep- 
resented by  one  glass  of  cold  gin  and 
water,  which  was  replenished,  as  occa- 
sion required,  from  a bottle  and  jug  up- 
on the  table,  and  was  passed  from  one 
to  another  in  a scarcity  of  tumblers, 
which,  as  Mr.  Svviveller’s  was  a bache- 
lor’s establishment,  may  be  acknowl- 
edged without  a blush.  By  a like  pleas- 
ant fiction  his  single  chamber  w'as  al- 
ways mentioned  in  the  plural  number. 
In  its  disengaged  times,  the  tobacco- 
nist had  announced  it  in  his  window  as 
“apartments”  for  a single  gentleman, 
and  Mr.  Swiveller,  following  up  the 
hint,  never  failed  to  speak  of  it  as  his 
rooms,  his  lodgings,  or  his  chambers, 
conveying  to  his  hearers  a notion  of  in- 
definite space,  and  leaving  their,  imagi- 
nations to  wander  through  long  suites 
of  lofty  halls,  at  pleasure. 

In  this  flight  of  fancy  Mr.  Swiveller 
was  assisted  by  a deceptive  piece  of 
furniture,  in  reality  a bedstead,  but  in 
semblance  a bookcase,  which  occupied 
a prominent  situation  in  his  chamber, 
and  seemed  to  defy  suspicion  and  chal- 
lenge inquiry.  There  is  no  doubt  that, 
by  day,  Mr.  Sw'iveller  firmly  believed 
this  secret  convenience  to  be  a bookcase 
and  nothing  more ; that  he  closed  his 


eyes  to  the  bed,  resolutely  denied  the 
existence  of  the  blankets,  and  spurned 
the  bolster  from  his  thoughts.  No  word 
of  its  real  use,  no  hint  of  its  nightly  ser- 
vice, no  allusion  to  its  peculiar  proper- 
ties, had  ever  passed  between  him  and 
his  most  intimate  friends.  Implicit 
faith  in  the  deception  was  the  first  ar- 
ticle of  his  creed.  To  be  the  friend  of 
Swiveller  you  must  reject  all  circumstan- 
tial evidence,  all  reason,  observation, 
and  experience,  and  repose  a blind 
belief  in  the  bookcase.  It  w'as  his  pet 
weakness,  and  he  cherished  it. 

“Fred  !”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  finding 
that  his  former  adjuration  had  been 
productive  of  no  effect.  “Pass  the 
rosy  ! ” 

Young  Trent,  with  an  impatient  ges- 
ture, pushed  the  glass  towards  him, 
and  fell  again  into  the  moody  attitude 
from  which  he  had  been  unwillingly 
roused. 

“ I ’ll  give  you,  Fred,”  said  his  friend, 
stirring  the  mixture,  “ a little  sentiment 
appropriate  to  the  occasion.  Here’s 
May  the  — ” 

“ Pshaw' ! ” interposed  the  other. 
“You  worry  me  to  death  with  your 
chattering.  You  can  be  merry  under 
any  circumstances.” 

“ Why,  Mr.  Trent,”  returned  Dick, 
“ there  is  a proverb  which  talks  about 
being  merry  and  w'ise.  There  are  some 
people  who  can  be  merry  and  can’t  be 
wise,  and  some  who  can  be  wise  (or 
think  they  can)  and  can’t  be  merry. 
I ’m  one  of  the  first  sort.  If  the  prov- 
erb ’s  a good  ’un,  I suppose  it ’s  better 
to  keep  to  half  of  it  than  none  ; at 
all  events  I ’d  rather  be  merry  and  not 
wise,  than  like  you  — neither  one  nor 
t’other.” 

“Bah !”  muttered hisfriend, peevishly. 

“ With  all  my  heart,”  said  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller. “In  the  polite  circles  I believe 
this  sort  of  thing  is  n’t  usually  said  to  a 
gentleman  in  his  own  apartments,  but 
never  mind  that.  Make  yourself  at 
home.”  Adding  to  this  retort  an  obser- 
vation to  the  effect  that  his  friend  ap- 
peared to  be  rather  “ cranky  ” in  point 
of  temper,  Richard  Swiveller  finished 
the  rosy  and  applied  himself  to  the  com- 
position of  another  glassful,  in  which, 
after  tasting  it  w’ith  great  relish,  he 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


4i 


proposed  a toast  to  an  imaginary  com- 
pany. 

“ Gentlemen,  I ’ll  give  you,  if  you 
please,  Success  to  the  ancient  family  of 
the  Swivellers,  and  good  luck  to  Mr. 
Richard  in  particular,  — Mr.  Richard, 
gentlemen,”  said  Dick  with  great  em- 

Ehasis,  “ who  spends  all  his  money  on 
is  friends  and  is  Bah  ! * d for  his  pains. 
Hear,  hear  ! ” 

“ Dick  ! ” said  the  other,  returning  to 
his  seat  after  having  paced  the  room 
twice  or  thrice,  “ will  you  talk  seriously 
for  two  minutes,  if  I show  you  a way 
to  make  your  fortune  with  very  little 
trouble?  ” 

“You’ve  shown  me  so  many,”  re- 
turned Dick  ; “ and  nothing  has  come 
of  any  of  ’em  but  empty  pockets  — ” 
“You’ll  tell  a different  story  of  this 
one,  before  a very  lorfg  time  is  over,” 
said  his  companion,  drawing  his  chair  to 
the  table.  “You  saw  my  sister  Nell?  ” 
“ What  about  her  ? ” returned  Dick. 

“ She  has  a pretty  face,  has  she 
not?  ” 

“ Why,  certainly,”  replied  Dick.  “ I 
must  say  for  her,  that  there ’s  not  any 
very  strong  family  likeness  between  her 
and  you.” 

“Has  she  a pretty  face?”  repeated 
his  friend,  impatiently. 

“Yes,”  said  Dick,  “she  has  a pretty 
face,  a very  pretty  face.  What  of 
that  ? ” 

“ I ’ll  tell  you,”  returned  his  friend. 
“ It ’s  very  plain  that  the  old  man  and 
I will  remain  at  daggers-drawn  to  the 
end  of  our  lives,  and  that  I have  noth- 
ing to  expect  from  him.  You  see  that, 

I suppose  ? ” 

“A  bat  might  see  that,  with  the  sun 
shining,”  said  Dick. 

“ It ’s  equally  plain  that  the  money 
which  the  old  flint — rot  him  — first 
taught  me  to  expect  that  I should  share 
with  her  at  his  death  will  all  be  hers,  is 
it  not  ? ” 

“ I should  say  it  was,”  replied  Dick  ; 
“ unless  the  way  in  which  I put  the  case 
to  him  made  an  impression.  It  may 
have  done  so.  It  was  powerful,  Fred. 

‘ Here  is  a jolly  old  grandfather  ’ — that 
was  strong,  I thought  — very  friendly 
and  natural.  Did  it  strike  you  in  that 
way  ? ” 


“ It  did  n’t  strike  him”  returned  the 
other,  “ so  we  need  n’t  discuss  it.  Now 
look  here.  Nell  is  nearly  fourteen.” 

“ Fine  girl  of  her  age,  but  small,” 
observed  Richard  Swiveller  parentheti- 
cally. 

“ If  I am  to  go  on,  be  quiet  for  one 
minute,”  returned  Trent,  fretting  at  the 
very  slight  interest  the  other  appeared  to 
take  in  the' conversation.  “Now  I’m 
coming  to  the  point.” 

“ That ’s  right,”  said  Dick. 

“The  girl  has  strong  affections,  and, 
brought  up  as  she  has  been,  may  at  her 
age  be  easily  influenced  and  persuaded. 
If  I take  her  in  hand,  I will  be  bound 
by  a very  little  coaxing  and  threatening 
to  bend  her  to  my  will.  Not  to  beat 
about  the  bush  (for  the  advantages  of 
the  scheme  would  take  a week  to  tell), 
what ’s  to  prevent  your  marrying  her?  ” 
Richard  Swiveller,  who  had  been 
looking  over  the  rim  of  the  tumbler 
while  his  companion  addressed  the  fore- 
going remarks  to  him  with  great  energy 
and  earnestness  of  manner,  no  sooner 
heard  these  words,  than  hh  evinced  the 
utmost  consternation,  and  with  difficulty 
ejaculated  the  monosyllable,  — 

“ What  ! ” 


“ I say,  what’s  to  prevent,”  repeated 
the  other,  with  a steadiness  of  manner, 
of  the  effect  of  which  upon  his  compan- 
ion he  was  well  assured  by  long  expe- 
rience, — “ what ’s  to  prevent  your  mar- 
rying her  ? ” 

“ And  she  * nearly  fourteen  ’ ! ” cried 
Dick. 

“ I don’t  mean  marrying  her  now,” 
returned  the  brother,  angrily ; “ say  in 
two  years’  time,  in  three,  in  four.  Does 
the  old  man  look  like  a long-liver?” 

“ He  don’t  look  like  it,”  said  Dick, 
shaking  his  head ; “ but  these  old  peo- 
ple— there’s  no  trusting  ’em,  Fred. 
There ’s  an  aunt  of  mine  down  in  Dor- 
setshire that  was  goqjg  to  die  when  I 
was  eight  years  old,  and  hasn’t  kept 
her  word  yet.  They ’re  so  aggravat- 
ing, so  unprincipled,  so  spiteful ; unless 
there’s  apoplexy  in  the  family,  Fred, 
you  can’t  calculate  upon  ’em,  and  even 
then  they  deceive  you  just  as  often  as 
not.” 

“ Look  at  the  w’orst  side  of  the  ques- 
tion then,”  said  Trent  as  steadily  as 


a/ 


42 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


before,  and  keeping  his  eyes  upon  his 
friend.  “ Suppose  he  lives.” 

“ To  be  sure,”  said  Dick.  “ There ’s 
the  rub.” 

“ I say,”  resumed  his  friend,  “suppose 
he  lives,  and  I persuaded,  or  if  the  word 
sounds  more  feasible,  forced  Nell  to  a 
secret  marriage  with  you.  What  do  you 
think  would  come  of  that  ? ” 

“ A family  and  an  annual  income  of 
nothing  to  keep  ’em  on,”  said  Richard 
Swiveller  after  some  reflection. 

“ I tell  you,”  returned  the  other  with 
an  increased  earnestness,  which,  whether 
it  were  real  or  assumed,  had  the  same 
effect  on  his  companion,  “ that  he  lives 
for  her,  that  his  whole  energies  and 
thoughts  are  bound  up  in  her,  that  he 
would  no  more  disinherit  her  for  an  act 
of  disobedience  than  he  would  take  me 
into  his  favor  again  for  any  act  of  obedi- 
ence or  virtue  that  I could  possibly  be 
guilty  of.  He  could  not  do  it.  You  or 
any  other  man  with  eyes  in  his  head 
may  see  that,  if  he  chooses.” 

“ It  seems  improbable,  certainly,” 
said  Dick,  musing. 

“It  seems  improbable  because  it  is 
improbable,”  his  friend  returned.  “ If 
you  would  furnish  him  with  an  addi- 
tional inducement  to  forgive  you,  let 
there  be  an  irreconcilable  breach,  a 
most  deadly  quarrel,  between  you  and 
me,  — let  there  be  a pretence  of  such  a 
thing,  I mean,  of  course,  — and  he  ’ll  do 
so  fast  enough.  As  to  Nell,  constant 
dropping  will  wear  away  a stone ; you 
know  you  may  trust  to  me  as  far  as  she 
is  concerned.  So,  whether  he  lives  or 
dies,  what  does  it  come  to  ? That  you 
become  the  sole  inheritor  of  the  wealth 
of  this  rich  old  hunks  ; that  you  and  I 
spend  it  together ; and  that  you  get,  into 
the  bargain,  a beautiful  young  wife.” 

“ I suppose  there’s  no  doubt  about 
his  being  rich,”  said  Dick. 

“ Doubt  ! Did, you  hear  what  he  let 
fall  the  other  day  when  we  were  there  ? 
Doubt ! What  will  you  doubt  next, 
Dick?  ” 

It  would  be  tedious  to  pursue  the 
conversation  through  all  its  artful  wind- 
ings, or  to  develop  the  gradual  approach- 
es by  which  the  heart  of  Richard  Swiv- 
eller was  gained.  It  is  sufficient  to 
know,  that  vanity,  interest,  poverty,  and 


every  spendthrift  consideration  urged 
him  to  look  upon  the  proposal  with 
favor,  and  that  where  all  other  induce- 
ments were  wanting,  the  habitual  care- 
lessness of  his  disposition  stepped  in 
and  still  weighed  down  the  scale  on  the 
same  side.  To  these  impulses  must  be 
added  the  complete  ascendency  which 
his  friend  had  long  been  accustomed 
to  exercise  over  him,  — an  ascendency 
exerted  in  the  beginning  sorely  at  the 
expense  of  the  unfortunate  Dick’s  purse 
and  prospects,  but  still  maintained  with- 
out the  slightest  relaxation,  notwith- 
standing that  Dick  suffered  for  all  his 
friend’s  vices,  and  was,  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten,  looked  upon  as  his  designing 
tempter,  when  he  was  indeed  nothing 
but  his  thoughtless,  light-headed  tool. 

The  motives  on  the  other  side  were 
something  deeper  than  any  which  Rich- 
ard Swiveller  entertained  or  understood  ; 
but  these,  being  left  to  their  own  devel- 
opment, require  no  present  elucidation. 
The  negotiation  was  concluded  very 
pleasantly,  and  Mr.  Swiveller  was  in 
the  act  of  stating  in  flowery  terms  that 
he  had  no  insurmountable  objection  to 
marrying  anybody  plentifully  endowed 
with  money  or  movables,  who  could 
be  induced  to  take  him,  when  he  was 
interrupted  in  his  observations  by  a 
knock  at  the  door,  and  the  consequent 
necessity  of  crying,  “ Come  in.” 

The  door  was  opened,  but  nothing 
came  in  except  a soapy  arm  and  a strong 
gush  of  tobacco.  The  gush  of  tobacco 
came  from  the  shop  down  stairs,  and 
the  soapy  arm  proceeded  from  the  body 
of  a servant-girl,  who,  being  then  and 
there  engaged  in  cleaning  the  stairs,  had 
just  drawn  it  out  of  a warm  pail  to  take 
in  a letter,  which  letter  she  now  held  in 
her  hand  ; proclaiming  aloud,  with  that 
quick  perception  of  surnames  peculiar  to 
her  class,  that  it  was  for  Mister  Snivel- 
ling. 

Dick  looked  rather  pale  and  foolish 
when  he  glanced  at  the  direction,  and 
still  more  so  when  he  came  to  look  at 
the  inside ; observing  that  this  was  one 
of  the  inconveniences  of  being  a lady’s 
man,  and  that  it  was  very  easy  to  talk 
as  they  had  been  talking,  but  he  had 
quite  forgotten  her. 

“ Her.  Who  ? ” demanded  Trent 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


43 


“ Sophy  Wackles,”  said  Dick. 
“Who’s  she?” 

“ She ’s  all  my  fancy  painted  her,  sir, 
that’s  what  she  is,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
taking  a long  pull  at  “the  rosy”  and 
looking  gravely  at  his  friend.  “ She  is 
lovely,  she ’s  divine.  You  know  her.” 

“ I remember,”  said  his  companion, 
carelessly.  “ What  of  her  ? ” 

“ Why,  sir,”  returned  Dick,  “ between 
Miss  Sophia  Wackles  and  the  humble 
individual  who  has  now  the  honor  to 
address  you,  warm  and  tender  senti- 
ments have  been  engendered,  — sen- 
timents of  the  most  honorable  and  in- 
spiring kind.  The  Goddess  Diana,  sir, 
that  calls  aloud  for  the  chase,  is  not 
more  particular  in  her  behavior  than 
Sophia  Wackles  ; I can  tell  you  that.” 
“Am  I to  believe  there’s  anything 
real  in  what  you  say?”  demanded  his 
friend.  “ You  don’t  mean  to  say  that 
any  love-making  has  been  going  on  ? ” 

“ Love-making,  yes.  Promising,  no,” 
said  Dick.  “There  can  be  no  action 
for  breach,  that ’s  one  comfort.  I ’ve 
never  committed  myself  in  writing, 
Fred.” 

“ And  what ’s  in  the  letter,  pray  ? ” 

“ A reminder,  Fred,  for  to-night,  — a 
small  party  of  twenty,  — making  two 
hundred  light  fantastic  toes  in  all,  sup- 
posing every  lady  and  gentleman  to 
have  the  proper  complement.  I must 
go,  if  it ’s  only  to  begin  breaking  off  the 
affair,  — I ’ll  do  it,  don’t  you  be  afraid. 

I should  like  to  know  whether  she  left 
this  herself.  If  she  did,  unconscious 
of  any  bar  to  her  happiness,  it’s  affect- 
ing, Fred.” 

To  solve  this  question,  Mr.  Swiveller 
summoned  the  handmaid  and  ascer- 
tained that  Miss  Sophy  Wackles  had 
indeed  left  the  letter  with  her  own 
hands ; that  she  had  come  accompa- 
nied, for  decorum’s  sake  no  doubt,  by  a 
younger  Miss  Wackles-;  and  that,  on 
learning  that  Mr.  Swiveller  was  at 
home,  and  being  requested  to  walk  up 
stairs,  she  was  extremely  shocked,  and 
professed  that  she  would  rather  die. 
Mr.  Swiveller  heard  this  account  with  a 
degree  of  admiration  not  altogether  con- 
sistent with  the  project  in  which  he  had 
just  concurred  ; but  his  friend  attached 
very  little  importance  to  his  behavior  in 


this  respect,  probably  because  he  knew 
that  he  had  influence  sufficient  to  con- 
trol Richard  Swiveller’s  proceedings  in 
this  or  any  other  matter,  whenever  he 
deemed  it  necessary,  for  the  advance- 
ment of  his  own  purposes,  to  exert  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Business  disposed  of,  Mr.  Swiveller 
was  inwardly  reminded  of  its  being  nigh 
dinner-time,  and,  to  the  intent  that  his 
health  might  not  be  endangered  by 
longer  abstinence,  despatched  a mes- 
sage to  the  nearest  eating-house  requir- 
ing an  immediate  supply  of  boiled  beef 
and  greens  for  two.  With  this  demand, 
however,  the  eating-house  (having  ex- 
perience of  its  customer)  declined  to 
comply,  churlishly  sending  back  for  an- 
swer, that  if  Mr.  Swiveller  stood  in  need 
of  beef,  perhaps  he  would  be  so  obliging 
as  to  come  there  and  eat  it,  bringing 
with  him,  as  grace  before  meat,  the 
amount  of  a certain  small  account  which 
had  been  long  outstanding.  Not  at  all 
intimidated  by  this  rebuff,  but  rather 
sharpened  in  wits  and  appetite,  Mr. 
Swiveller  forwarded  the  same  message 
to  another  and  more  distant  eating- 
house,  adding  to  it,  by  way  of  rider,  that 
the  gentleman  was  induced  to  send  so 
far,  not  only  by  the  great  fame  and  pop- 
ularity its  beef  had  acquired,  but  in  con- 
sequence of  the  extreme  toughness  of 
the  beef  retailed  at  the  obdurate  cook’s 
shop,  which  rendered  it  quite  unfit,  not 
merely  for  gentlemanly  food,  but  for  any 
human  consumption.  The  good  effect 
of  this  politic  course  was  demonstrated 
by  the  speedy  arrival  of  a small  pewter 
pyramid,  curiously  constructed  of  plat- 
ters and  covers,  whereof  the  boiled-beef 
plates  formed  the  base,  and  a foaming 
quart-pot  the  apex  ; the  structure,  being 
resolved  into  its  component  parts,  af- 
forded all  things  requisite  and  necessary 
for  a hearty  meal,  to  which  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler and  his  friend  applied  themselves 
with  great  keenness  and  enjoyment. 

“ May  the  present  moment,”  said 
Dick,  sticking  his  fork  into  a large  car- 
buncular  potato,  “ be  the  worst  of  our 
lives  ! I like  this  plan  of  sending  ’em 


44 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


with  the  peel  on  : there ’s  a charm  in 
drawing  a potato  from  its  native  element 
(if  I may  so  express  it)  to  which  the 
rich  and  powerful  are  strangers.  Ah  ! 
* Man  wants  but  little  here  below,  nor 
wants  that  little  long  1 ’ How  true  that 
is! — after  dinner.” 

“ I hope  the  eating-house  keeper 
will  want  but  little  and  that  he  may 
not  w'ant  that  little  long,”  returned  his 
companion  ; “ but  I suspect  you  ’ve  no 
means  of  paying  for  this  ! ” 

“ I shall  be  passing  presently,  and  I ’ll 
call,”  said  Dick,  winking  his  eye  sig- 
nificantly. “The  waiter’s  quite  help- 
less. The  goods  are  gone,  Fred,  and 
there’s  an  end  of  it.” 

In  point  of  fact,  it  would  seem  that 
the  waiter  felt  this  wholesome  truth,  for 
when  he  returned  for  the  empty  plates 
and  dishes,  and  was  informed  by  Mr. 
Swiveller  with  dignified  carelessness 
that  he  would  call  and  settle  when  he 
should  be  passing  presently,  he  displayed 
some  perturbation  of  spirit,  and  mut- 
tered a few  remarks  about  “ payment  on 
delivery,”  and  “ no  trust,”  and  other  un- 
pleasant subjects,  but  was  fain  to  con- 
tent himself  with  inquiring  at  what  hour 
it  was  likely  the  gentleman  would  call, 
in  order  that,  being  personally  responsi- 
ble for  the  beef,  greens,  and  sundries, 
he  might  take  care  to  be  in  the  way  at 
the  time.  Mr.  Swiveller,  after  mentally 
calculating  his  engagements  to  a nicety, 
replied  that  he  should  look  in  at  from 
two  minutes  before  six  to  seven  minutes 
past ; and  the  man  disappearing  with 
this  feeble  consolation,  Richard  Swivel- 
ler took  a greasy  memorandum-book 
from  his  pocket  and  made  an  entry 
therein. 

“ Is  that  a reminder,  in  case  you 
should  forget  to  call?  ” said  Trent,  with 
a sneer. 

“Not  exactly,  Fred,”  replied  the 
imperturbable  Richard,  continuing  to 
write  with  a business-like  air.  “ I enter 
in  this  little  book  the  names  of  the 
streets  that  I can’t  go  down  while  the 
shops  are  open.  This  dinner  to-day 
closes  Long  Acre.  I bought  a pair  of 
boots  in  Great  Queen  Street  last  week, 
and  made  that  no  thoroughfare  too. 
There ’s  only  one  avenue  to  the  Strand 
left  open  now,  and  I shall  have  to  stop 


up  that  to-night  with  a pair  of  gloves. 
The  roads  are  closing  so  fast  in  every 
direction,  that,  in  about  a month’s  time, 
unless  my  aunt  sends  me  a remittance, 
I shall  have  to  go  three  or  four  miles 
out  of  town  to  get  over  the  way.” 

“ There ’s  no  fear  of  her  failing,  in 
the  end?”  said  Trent. 

“Why,  I hope  not,”  returned  Mr. 
Swiveller,  “but  the  average  number  of 
letters  it  takes  to  soften  her  is  six,  and 
this  time  we  have  got  as  far  as  eight 
without  any  effect  at  all.  I ’ll  write 
another  to-morrow  morning.  I mean 
to  blot  it  a good  deal,  and  shake  some 
water  over  it  out  of  the  pepper-castor, 
to  make  it  look  penitent.  ‘ I ’m  in  such 
a state  of  mind  that  I hardly  know  what 
I write’  — blot  — ‘if  you  could  see  me 
at  this  minute  shedding  tears  for  my 
ast  misconduct  ’ — pepper-castor — ‘my 
and  trembles  when  I think  ’ — blot 
again  — if  that  don’t  produce  the  effect, 
it ’s  all  over.” 

By  this  time  Mr.  Swiveller  had  fin- 
ished his  entry,  and  he  now  replaced 
his  pencil  in  its  little  sheath  and  closed 
the  book,  in  a perfectly  grave  and  seri- 
ous frame  of  mind.  His  friend  discov- 
ered that  it  was  time  for  him  to  fulfil 
some  other  engagement,  and  Richard 
Swiveller  was  accordingly  left  alone,  in 
company  with  the  rosy  wine  and  his 
own  meditations  touching  Miss  Sophy 
Wackles. 

“ It ’s  rather  sudden,”  said  Dick,  shak- 
ing his  head  with  a look  of  infinite  wis- 
dom, and  running  on  (as  he  was  accus 
tomed  to  do)  with  scraps  of  verse  as  i# 
they  were  only  prose  in  a hurry  ; “ whe& 
the  heart  of  a man  is  depressed  with 
fears,  the  mist  is  dispelled  when  Mis* 
Wackles  appears  : she ’s  a very  nic« 
girl.  She ’s  like  the  red  red  rose  that ’s 
newly  sprung  in  June, — there’s  no 
denying  that,  — she ’s  also  like  a melo- 
dy that ’s  sweetly  played  in  tune.  It  ’a 
really  very  sudden.  Not  that  there ’s 
any  need,  on  account  of  Fred’s  lijtle 
sister,  to  turn  cool  directly,  but  it  is 
better  not  to  go  too  far.  If  I begin  to 
cool  at  all,  I must  begin  at  once,  I see 
that.  There ’s  the  chance  of  an  action 
for  breach,  that ’s  one  reason.  There’s 
the  chance  of  Sophy’s  getting  another 
husband,  that ’s  another.  There ’s  the 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


45 


chance  of  — no,  there’s  no  chance  of 
that,  but  it ’s  hs  well  to  be  on  the  safe 
side.” 

This  undeveloped  consideration  was 
the  possibility,  which  Richard  Swiveller 
sought  to  conceal  even  from  himself,  of 
his  not  being  proof  against  the  charms 
of  Miss  Wackles,  and  in  some  unguard- 
ed moment,  by  linking  his  fortunes  to 
hers  forever,  of  putting  it  out  of  his  own 
power  to  further  the  notable  scheme  to 
which  he  had  so  readily  become  a party. 
For  all  these  reasons,  he  decided  to 
pick  a quarrel  with  Miss  Wackles  with- 
out delay,  and,  casting  about  for  a pre- 
text, determined  in  favor  of  groundless 
jealousy.  Having  made  up  his  mind 
on  this  important  point,  he  circulated 
the  glass  (from  his  right  hand  to  his  left, 
and  back  again)  pretty  freely,  to  enable 
him  to  act  his  part  with  the  greater  dis- 
cretion, and  then,  after  making  some 
slight  improvements  in  his  toilet,  bent 
his  steps  towards  the  spot  hallowed  by 
the  fair  object  of  his  meditations. 

This  spot  was  at  Chelsea,  for  there 
Miss  Sophia  Wackles  resided  with  her 
widowed  mother  and  two  sisters,  in 
conjunction  with  whoni  she  maintained 
a very  small  day-school  for  young  ladies 
of  proportionate  dimensions  ; a circum- 
stance which  was  made  known  to  the 
neighborhood  by  an  oval  board  over 
the  front  first-floor  window,  whereon 
appeared,  in  circumambient  flourishes, 
the  words  “ Ladies*  Seminary,”  and 
which  was  further  published  and  pro- 
claimed at  intervals,  between  the  hours 
of  half  past  nine  and  ten  in  the  morning, 
by  a straggling  and  solitary  young  lady 
of  tender  years  standing  on  the  scraper 
on  the  tips  of  her  toes,  and  making  futile 
attempts  to  reach  the  knocker  with  a 
spelling-book.  The  several  duties  of 
instruction  in  this  establishment  were 
thus  discharged.  English  grammar, 
composition,  geography,  and  the  use  of 
the  dumb-bells,  by  Miss  Melissa  Wack- 
les ;•  writing,  arithmetic,  dancing,  music, 
and  general  fascination,  by  Miss  Sophy 
Wackles;  the  art  of  needle-work,  mark- 
ing, and  samplery,  by  Miss  Jane  Wack- 
les ; corporal  punishment,  fasting,  and 
other  tortures  and  terrors,  by  Mrs. 
Wackles.  Miss  Melissa  Wackles  was 
the  eldest  daughter,  Miss  Sophy  the 


next,  and  Miss  Jane  the  youngest. 
Miss  Melissa  might  have  seen  five-and- 
thirty  summers  or  thereabouts,  and 
verged  on  the  autumnal ; Miss  Sophy 
was  a fresh,  good-humored,  buxom 
girl  of  twenty;  and  Miss  Jane  num- 
bered scarcely  sixteen  years.  Mrs. 
Wackles  was  an  excellent,  but  rather 
venomous,  old  lady  of  threescore. 

To  this  Ladies’  Seminary,  then,  Rich- 
ard Swiveller  hied,  with  designs  obnox- 
ious to  the  peace  of  the  fair  Sophia, 
who,  arrayed  in  virgin  white,  embel- 
lished by  no  ornament  but  one  blushing 
rose,  received  him,  on  his  arrival,  in  the 
midst  of  very  elegant  not  to  say  brilliant 
preparations,  — such  as  the  embellish- 
ment of  the  room  with  the  little  flower- 
pots which  always  stood  on  the  window- 
sill outside,  save  in  windy  weather,  when 
they  blew  into  the  area  ; the  choice 
attire  of  the  day-scholars,  who  were 
allowed  to  grace  the  festival  ; the  un- 
wonted curls  of  Miss  Jane  Wackles,  who 
had  kept  her  head  during  the  whole  of 
the  preceding  day  screwed  up  tight  in  a 
yellow  play-bill ; and  the  solemn  gen- 
tility and  stately  bearing  of  the  old  lady 
and  her  eldest  daughter,  which  struck 
Mr.  Swiveller  as  being  uncommon,  but 
made  no  further  impression  upon  him. 

The  truth  is,  — and,  as  there  is  no 
accounting  for  tastes,  even  a taste  so 
strange  as  this  may  be  recorded  without 
being  looked  upon  as  a wilful  and  ma- 
licious invention,  — the  truth  is,  that 
neither  Mrs.  Wackles  nor  her  eldest 
daughter  had  at  any  time  greatly  fa- 
vored the  pretensions  of  Mr.  Swiveller, 
they  being  accustomed  to  make  slight 
mention  of  him  as  “a  gay  young  man,” 
and  to  sigh  and  shake  their  heads  omi- 
nously whenever  his  name  was  men- 
tioned. Mr.  Swiveller’s  conduct  in  re- 
spect to  Miss  Sophy  having  been  of 
that  vague  and  dilatory  kind  which  is 
usually  looked  upon  as  betokening  no 
fixed  matrimonial  intentions,  the  young 
lady  herself  began,  in  course  of  time,  to 
deem  it  highly  desirable  that  it  should 
be  brought  to  an  issue  one  way  or  other. 
Hence,  she  had  at  last  consented  to 
play  off,  against  Richard  Swiveller,  a 
stricken  market-gardener  known  to  be 
ready  with  his  offer  on  the  smallest 
encouragement,  and  hence  — as  this  oc- 


46 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


casion  had  been  specially  assigned  for 
the  purpose  — that  great  anxiety  on  her 
part  for  Richard  Swiveller’s  presence 
which  had  occasioned  her  to  leave  the 
note  he  has  been  seen  to  receive.  “ If 
he  has  any  expectations  at  all  or  any 
means  of  keeping  a wife  well,”  said 
Mrs.  Wackles  to  her  eldest  daughter, 
“ he  ’ll  state  ’em  to  us  now  or  never.” 
“If  he  really  cares  about  me,”  thought 
Miss  Sophy,  “he  must  tell  me  so  to- 
night.” 

But  all  these  sayings  and  doings  and 
thinkings,  being  unknown  to  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller,  affected  him  not  in  the  least ; he 
was  debating  in  his  mind  how  he  could 
best  turn  jealous,  and  wishing  that 
Sophy  were,  for  that  occasion  only,  far 
less  pretty  than  she  was,  or  that  she 
were  her  own  sister,  which  would  have 
served  his  turn  as  well,  when  the  com- 
pany came,  and  among  them  the  mar- 
ket-gardener, whose  name  was  Cheggs. 
But  Mr.  Cheggs  came  not  alone  or 
unsupported,  for  he  prudently  brought 
along  with  him  his  sister,  Miss  Cheggs, 
who,  making  straight  to  Miss  Sophy, 
and  taking  her  by  both  hands,  and  kiss- 
ing her  on  both  cheeks,  hoped  in  an 
audible  whisper  that  they  had  not  come 
too  early. 

“ Too  early,  no  ! ” replied  Miss  So- 
phy. 

“ O my  dear,”  rejoined  Miss  Cheggs 
in  the  same  whisper  as  before,  “ I ’ve 
been  so  tormented,  so  worried,  that  it ’s 
a mercy  we  were  not  here  at  four  o’clock 
in  the  afternoon.  Alick  has  been  in  suck 
a state  of  impatience  to  come  ! You ’d 
hardly  believe  that  he  was  dressed  be- 
fore dinner-time  and  has  been  look- 
ing at  the  clock  and  teasing  me  ever 
since.  It ’s  all  your  fault,  you  naughty 
thing.” 

Hereupon  Miss  Sophy  blushed,  and 
Mr.  Cheggs  (who  was  bashful  before 
ladies)  blushed  too,  and  Miss  Sophy’s 
mother  and  sisters,  to  prevent  Mr. 
Cheggs  from  blushing  more,  lavished 
civilities  and  attentions  upon  him,  and 
left  Richard  Swiveller  to  take  care  of 
himself.  Here  was  the  very  thing  he 
wanted  ; here  was  good  cause,  reason, 
and  foundation  for  pretending  to  be 
angry ; but  having  this  cause,  reason, 
and  foundation  which  he  had  come  ex- 


pressly to  seek,  not  expecting  to  find, 
Richard  Swiveller  was  angry  in  sound 
earnest,  and  wondered  what  the  devil 
Cheggs  meant  by  his  impudence. 

However,  Mr.  Swiveller  had  Miss 
Sophy’s  hand  for  the  first  quadrille 
(country-dances  being  low,  were  utterly 
proscribed),  and  so  gained  an  advantage 
over  his  rival,  who  sat  despondingly  in 
a corner  and  contemplated  the  glorious 
figure  of  the  young  lady  as  she  moved 
through  the  mazy  dance.  Nor  was  this 
the  only  start  Mr.  Swiveller  had  of  the 
market-gardener ; for,  determining  to 
show  the  family  what  quality  of  man 
they  trifled  with,  and  influenced  per- 
haps by  his  late  libations,  he  performed 
such  feats  of  agility  and  such  spins  and 
twirls  as  filled  the  company  with  aston- 
ishment, and  in  particular  caused  a very 
long  gentleman,  who  was  dancing  with  a 
very  short  scholar,  to  stand  quite  trans- 
fixed by  wonder  and  admiration.  Even 
Mrs.  Wackles  forgot  for  the  moment  to 
snub  three  small  young  ladies  who  were 
inclined  to  be  happy,  and  could  not  re- 
press a rising  thought,  that  to  have  such 
a dancer  as  that  in  the  family  would  be 
a pride  indeed. 

At  this  momentous  crisis,  Miss 
Cheggs  proved  herself  a vigorous  and 
useful  ally  ; for,  not  confining  herself  to 
expressing  by  scornful  smiles  a contempt 
for  Mr.  Swiveller’s  accomplishments, 
she  took  every  opportunity  of  whisper- 
ing into  Miss  Sophy’s  ear  expressions 
of  condolence  and  sympathy  on  her  be- 
ing worried  by  such  a ridiculous  crea- 
ture, declaring  that  she  was  frightened  to 
death  lest  Alick  should  fall  upon  him, 
and  beat  him,  in  the  fulness  of  his 
wrath,  and  entreating  Miss  Sophy  to 
observe  how  the  eyes  of  the  said  Alick 
gleamed  with  love  and  fury,  — passions, 
it  may  be  observed,  which,  being  too 
much  for  his  eyes,  rushed  into  his  nose 
also,  and  suffused  it  with  a crimson 
glow. 

“You  must  dance  with  Miss  Cheggs,” 
said  Miss  Sophy  to  Dick  Swiveller,  after 
she  had  herself  danced  twice  with  Mr. 
Cheggs,  and  made  great  show  of  en- 
couraging his  advances.  “ She ’s  such 
a nice  girl, — and  her  brother’s  quite 
delightful.” 

“Quite  delightful,  is  he?”  muttered 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


47 


Dick.  “ Quite  delighted,  too,  I should 
say,  from  the  manner  in  which  he ’s 
looking  this  way.” 

Here  Miss  Jane  (previously  instruct- 
ed for  the  purpose)  interposed  her  many 
curls  and  whispered  her  sister  to  ob- 
serve how  jealous  Mr.  Cheggs  was. 

“ Jealous  ! Like  his  impudence  ! ” 
said  Richard  Swiveller. 

“ His  impudence,  Mr.  Swiveller  ! ” 
said  Miss  Jane,  tossing  her  head. 
“Take  care  he  don’t  hear  you,  sir,  or 
you  may  be  sorry  for  it.” 

“O,  pray,  Jane  — ” said  Miss  So- 
phy. 

“ Nonsense  ! ” replied  her  sister, 
“why  shouldn’t  Mr.  Cheggs  be  jeal- 
ous if  he  likes?  I like  that,  certainly. 
Mr.  Cheggs  has  as  good  a right  to  be 
jealous  as  anybody  else  has,  and  perhaps 
he  may  have  a better  right  soon,  if  he 
has  n’t  already.  You  know  best  about 
that,  Sophy  ! ” 

Though  this  was  a concerted  plot  be- 
tween Miss  Sophy  and  her  sister,  origi- 
nating in  humane  intentions,  and  hav- 
ing for  its  object  the  inducing  Mr. 
Swiveller  to  declare  himself  in  time,  it 
failed  in  its  effect ; for  Miss  Jane,  being 
one  of  those  young  ladies  who  are 
prematurely  shrill  and  shrewish,  gave 
such  undue  importance  to  her  part,  that 
Mr.  Swiveller  retired  in  dudgeon,  re- 
signing his  mistress  to  Mr.  Cheggs, 
and  conveying  a defiance  into  his  looks 
which  that  gentleman  indignantly  re- 
turned. 

“Did  you  speak  to  me,  sir?”  said 
Mr.  Cheggs,  following  him  into  a corner. 
— “Have  the  kindness  to  smile,  sir,  in 
order  that  we  may  not  be  suspected.  — 
Did  you  speak  to  me,  sir?” 

Mr.  Swiveller  looked  with  a supercil- 
ious smile  at  Mr.  Cheggs’s  toes,  then 
raised  his  eyes  from  them  to  his  ankle, 
from  that  to  his  shin,  from  that  to  his 
knee,  and  so  on  very  gradually,  keep- 
ing up  his  right  leg,  until  he  reached  his 
waistcoat,  when  he  raised  his  eyes  from 
button  to  button  until  he  reached  his 
chin,  and,  travelling  straight  up  the 
middle  of  his  nose,  came  at  last  to  his 
eyes,  when  he  said  abruptly,  — 

“ No,  sir,  I did  n’t.” 

“ Hem  ! ” said  Mr.  Cheggs,  glan- 
cing over  his  shoulder,  “have  the  good- 


ness to  smile  again,  sir.  Perhaps  you 
wished  to  speak  to  me,  sir.” 

“ No,  sir,  I didn’t  do  that,  either.” 

“ Perhaps  you  may  have  nothing  to 
say  to  me  now.  sir,”  said  Mr.  Cheggs, 
fiercely. 

At  these  words,  Richard  Swiveller 
withdrew  his  eyes  from  Mr.  Cheggs’s 
face,  and  travelling  down  the  middle  of 
his  nose,  and  down  his  waistcoat,  and 
down  his  right  leg,  reached  his  toes 
again,  and  carefully  surveyed  them  ; 
this  done,  he  crossed  over,  and  coming 
up  the  other  leg,  and  thence  approaching 
by  the  waistcoat  as  before,  said,  when 
he  had  got  to  his  eyes,  “ No,  sir,  I 
have  n’t.” 

“ O,  indeed,  sir  ! ” said  Mr.  Cheggs. 
“ I ’m  glad  to  hear  it.  You  know 
where  I ’m  to  be  found,  I suppose,  sir, 
in  case  you  shoxild  have  anything  to  say 
to  me?  ” 

“ I can  easily  inquire,  sir,  when  I 
want  to  know.” 

“ There ’s  nothing  more  we  need  say, 
I believe,  sir? ” 

“ Nothing  more,  sir.”  With  that 
they  closed  the  tremendous  dialogue  by 
frowning  mutually.  Mr.  Cheggs  has- 
tened to  tender  his  hand  to  Miss  Sophy, 
and  Mr.  Swiveller  sat  himself  down  in 
a corner  in  a very  moody  state. 

Hard  by  this  corner  Mrs.  Wackles 
and  Miss  Wackles  were  seated,  looking 
on  at  the  dance ; and  unto  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Wackles  Miss  Cheggs  occasion- 
ally darted,  when  her  partner  was  oc- 
cupied with  his  share  of  the  figure,  and 
made  some  remark  or  other  which  was 
gall  and  wormwood  to  Richard  Swiv- 
eller’s  soul.  _ Looking  into  the  eyes  of 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Wackles  for  encourage- 
ment, and  sitting  very  upright  and  un- 
comfortable on  a couple  of  hard  stools, 
were  two  of  the  day-scholars  ; and 
when  Miss  Wackles  smiled,  and  Mrs. 
Wackles  smiled,  the  two  little  girls  on 
the  stools  sought  to  curry  favor  by 
smiling  likewise,  in  gracious  acknowl- 
edgment of  which  attention  the  old 
lady  frowned  them  down  instantly,  and 
said,  that  if  they  dared  to  be  guilty  of 
such  an  impertinence  again,  they  should 
be  sent  under  convoy  to  their  respec- 
tive homes.  This  threat  caused  one 
of  the  young  ladies,  she  being  of  a 


48 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


weak  and  trembling  temperament,  to 
shed  tears,  and  for  this  offence  they 
were  both  filed  off  immediately,  with 
a dreadful  promptitude  that  struck  ter- 
ror into  the  souls  of  all  the  pupils. 

“ I ’ve  got  such  news  for  you,”  said 
Miss  Cheggs,  approaching  once  more. 
“ Alick  has  been  saying  such  things  to 
Sophy.  Upon  my  word,  you  know, 
it ’s  quite  serious  and  in  earnest,  that ’s 
clear.” 

“ What ’s  he  been  saying,  my  dear  ? ” 
demanded  Mrs.  Wackles. 

“ All  manner  of  things,”  replied  Miss 
Cheggs  ; “ you  can’t  think  how  out  he 
has  been  speaking  ! ” 

Richard  Swiveller  considered  it  ad- 
visable to  hear  no  more,  but  taking  ad- 
vantage of  a pause  in  the  dancing,  and 
the  approach  of  Mr.  Cheggs  to  pay 
his  court  to  the  old  lady,  swaggered 
with  an  extremely  careful  assumption 
of  extreme  carelessness  towards  the 
door,  passing  on  the  way  Miss  Jane 
Wackles,  who,  in  all  the  glory  of  her 
curls,  was  holding  a flirtation  (as  good 
practice  when  no  better  was  to  be  had) 
with  a feeble  old  gentleman  who  lodged 
in  the  parlor.  Near  the  door  sat  Miss 
Sophy,  still  fluttered  and  confused  by 
the  attentions  of  Mr.  Cheggs,  and  by 
her  side  Richard  Swiveller  lingered  for 
a moment  to  exchange  a few  parting 
words. 

“My  boat  is  on  the  shore  and  my 
bark  is  on  the  sea,  but  before  I pass 
this  door  I will  say  farewell  to  thee,” 
murmured  Dick,  looking  gloomily  upon 
her. 

“ Are  you  going?”  said  Miss  Sophy, 
whose  heart  sunk  within  her  at  the  re- 
sult of  her  stratagem,  but  who  affected 
a light  indifference  notwithstanding. 

“Am  I going!”  echoed  Dick,  bit- 
terly. “Yes,  lam.  What  then?” 

“Nothing,  except  that  it  ’s  very 
early,”  said  Miss  Sophy  ; “ but  you  are 
your  own  master  of  course.” 

“ I would  that  I had  been  my  own 
mistress,  too,”  said  Dick,  “before  I 
had  ever  entertained  a thought  of  you. 
Miss  Wackles,  I believed  you  true,  and 
I was  blest  in  so  believing,  but  now  I 
mourn  that  e’er  I knew  a girl  so  fair, 
yet  so  deceiving.” 

Miss  Sophy  bit  her  lip  and  affected 


to  look  with  great  interest  after  Mr. 
Cheggs,  who  was  quaffing  lemonade  in 
the  distance. 

“ I came  here,”  said  Dick,  rather 
oblivious  of  the  purpose  with  which  he 
had  really  come,  “ with  my  bosom  ex- 
panded, my  heart  dilated,  and  my  sen- 
timents of  a corresponding  description. 
I go  away  with  feelings  that  may  be 
conceived,  but  cannot  be  described, 
feeling  within  myself  the  desolating 
truth  that  my  best  affections  have  ex- 
perienced, this  night,  a stifler  ! ” 

“ I am  sure  I don’t  know  what  you 
mean,  Mr.  Swiveller,”  said  Miss  So- 
phy with  downcast  eyes.  “I’m  very 
sorry  if — ” 

“Sorry,  ma’am  ! ” said  Dick,  — “ sor- 
ry in  the  possession  of  a Cheggs  ! But 
I wish  you  a very  good  night ; con- 
cluding with  this  slight  remark,  that 
there  is  a young  lady  growing  up  at 
this  present  moment  for  me,  who  has 
not  only  great  personal  attractions  but 
reat  wealth,  and  who  has  requested 
er  next  of  kin  to  propose  for  my  hand, 
which,  having  a regard  for  some  mem- 
bers of  her  family,  I have  consented 
to  promise.  It ’s  a gratifying  circum- 
stance which  you  ’ll  be  glad  to  hear,  that 
a young  and  lovely  girl  is  growing  into 
a woman  expressly  on  my  account,  and 
is  now  saving  up  for  me.  I thought 
I ’d  mention  it.  I have  now  merely  to 
apologize  for  trespassing  so  long  upon 
your  attention.  Good  night  ! ” 

“There ’s  one  good  thing  springs  out 
of  all  this,”  said  Richard  Swiveller  to 
himself,  when  he  had  reached  home  and 
was  hanging  over  the  candle  with  the 
extinguisher  in  his  hand,  “ which  is, 
that  I now  go  heart  and  soul,  neck  and 
heels,  with  Fred  in  all  his  scheme  about 
little  Nelly,  and  right  glad  he  ’ll  be  to 
find  me  so  strong  upon  it.  Fie  shall 
know  all  about  that  to-morrow,  and  in 
the  mean  time,  as  it ’s  rather  late,  I ’ll 
try  and  get  a wink  or  two  of  the  balmy.” 

“The  balmy”  came  almost  as  soon 
as  it  wras  courted.  In  a very  few  min- 
utes Mr.  Swiveller  was  fast  asleep, 
dreaming  that  he  had  married  Nelly 
Trent  and  come  into  the  property,  and 
that  his  first  act  of  power  was  to  lay 
waste  the  market-garden  of  Mr.  Cheggs 
and  turn  it  into  a brick-field. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


49 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  child,  in  her  confidence  with 
Mrs.  Quilp,  had  but  feebly  described 
the  sadness  and  sorrow  of  her  thoughts, 
or  the  heaviness  of  the  cloud  which 
overhung  her  home,  and  cast  dark  shad- 
ows on  its  hearth.  Besides  that  it  was 
very  difficult  to  impart  to  any  person 
not  intimately  acquainted  with  the  life 
she  led  an  adequate  sense  of  its  gloom 
and  loneliness,  a constant  fear  of  in 
some  way  committing  or  injuring  the 
old  man  to  whom  she  was  so  tenderly 
attached,  had  restrained  her,  even  in 
the  midst  of  her  heart’s  overflowing, 
and  made  her  timid  of  allusion  to  the 
main  cause  of  her  anxiety  and  distress. 

For  it  was  not  the  monotonous  days, 
uncheckered  by  variety  and  uncheered 
by  pleasant  companionship,  it  was  not 
the  dark  dreary  evenings  or  the  long 
solitary  nights,  it  was  not  the  absence 
of  every  slight  and  easy  pleasure  for 
which  young  hearts  beat  high,  or  the 
knowing  nothing  of  childhood  but  its 
weakness  and  its  easily  wounded  spirit, 
that  had  wrung  such  tears  from  Nell. 
To  see  the  old  man  struck  down  be- 
neath the  pressure  of  some  hidden  grief, 
to  mark  his  wavering  and  unsettled 
state,  to  be  agitated  at  times  with  a 
dreadful  fear  that  his  mind  was  wander- 
ing, and  to  trace  in  his  words  and  looks 
• the  dawning  of  despondent  madness,  — 
to  watch  and  wait  and  listen  for  confirma- 
tion of  these  things  day  after  day,  and 
to  feel  and  know  that,  come  what  might, 
they  were  alone  in  the  world  with  no 
one  to  help  or  advise  or  care  about 
them,  — these  were  causes  of  depression 
and  anxiety  that  might  have  sat  heavily 
on  an  older  breast,  with  many  influences 
at  work  to  cheer  and  gladden  it,  but 
how  heavily  on  the  mind  of  a young 
child,  to  whom  they  were  ever  present, 
and  who  was  constantly  surrounded  by 
all  that  could  keep  such  thoughts  in 
restless  action  ! 

And  yet,  to  the  old  man’s  vision,  Nell 
was  still  the  same.  When  he  could, 
for  a moment,  disengage  his  mind  from 
the  phantom  that  haunted  and  brooded 
on  it  always,  there  was  his  young  com- 
panion with  the  same  smile  for  him,  the 
same  earnest  words,  the  same  merry 

4 


laugh,  the  same  love  and  care,  that, 
sinking  deep  into  his  soul,  seemed  to 
have  been  present  to  him  through  his 
whole  life.  And  so  he  went  on,  content 
to  read  the  book  of  her  heart  from  the 
page  first  presented  to  him,  little  dream- 
ing of  the  story  that  lay  hidden  in  its 
other  leaves,  and  murmuring  within 
himself  that  at  least  the  child  was 
happy. 

She  had  been  once.  She  had  gone 
singing  through  the  dim  rooms,  and 
moving  with  gay  and  lightsome  step 
among  their  dusty  treasures,  making 
them  older  by  her  young  life,  and  sterner 
and  more  grim  by  her  gay  and  cheer- 
ful presence.  But  now  the  chambers 
were  cold  and  gloomy,  and  when  she 
left  her  own  little  room  to  while  away 
the  tedious  hours,  and  sat  in  one  of 
them,  she  was  still  and  motionless  as 
their  inanimate  occupants,  and  had  no 
heart  to  startle  the  echoes  — hoarse 
from  their  long  silence  — with  her 
voice. 

In  one  of  these  rooms  was  a window 
looking  into  the  street,  where  the  child 
sat,  many  and  many  a long  evening, 
and  often  far  into  the  night,  alone  and 
thoughtful.  None  are  so  anxious  as 
those  who  watch  and  wait.  At  these 
times  mournful  fancies  came  flocking 
on  her  mind,  in  crowds. 

She  would  take  her  station  here  at  dusk, 
and  watch  the  people  as  they  passed  up 
and  down  the  street,  or  appeared  at  the 
windows  of  the  opposite  houses,  won- 
dering whether  those  rooms  were  as 
lonesome  as  that  in  which  she  sat,  and 
whether  those  people  felt  it  compa- 
ny to  see  her  sitting  there,  as  she  did 
only  to  . see  them  look  out  and  draw 
in  their  heads  again.  There  was  a 
crooked  stack  of  chimneys  on  one  of 
the  roofs,  in  which,  by  often  looking  at 
them,  she  had  fancied  ugly  faces  that 
were  frowning  over  at  her  and  trying  to 
peer  into  the  room  ; and  she  felt  glad 
when  it  grew  too  dark  to  make  them 
out,  though  she  was  sorry,  too,  when 
the  man  came  to  light  the  lamps  in 
the  street,  for  it  made  it  late,  and  very 
dull  inside.  Then  she  would  draw  in 
her  head  to  look  round  the  room  and 
see  that  everything  was  in  its  place  and 
had  n’t  moved ; and,  looking  out  into  the 


5° 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


street  again,  would,  perhaps,  see  a man 
passing  with  a coffin  on  his  back,  and 
two  or  three  others  silently  following  him 
to  a house  where  somebody  lay  dead  ; 
which  made  her  shudder  and  think  of 
such  things,  until  they  suggested  afresh 
the  old  man’s  altered  face  and  manner, 
and  a new  train  of  fears  and  specula- 
tions. If  he  were  to  die,  — if  sudden 
illness  had  happened  to  him,  and  he 
were  never  to  come  home  again,  alive, 
— if,  one  night,  he  should  come  home, 
and  kiss  and  bless  her  as  usual,  and 
after  she  had  gone  to  bed  and  had  fall- 
en asleep  and  was  perhaps  dreaming 
pleasantly  and  smiling  in  her  sleep, 
he  should  kill  himself,  and  his  blood 
come  creeping,  creeping  on  the  ground 
to  her  own  bedroom  door — These 
thoughts  were  too  terrible  to  dwell 
upon,  and  again  she  would  have  re- 
course to  the  street,  now  trodden  by  few- 
er feet,  and  darker  and  more  silent  than 
before.  The  shops  were  closing  fast, 
and  lights  began  to  shine  from  the  up- 
er  windows,  as  the  neighbors  went  to 
ed.  By  degrees  these  dwindled  away 
and  disappeared,  or  were  replaced,  here 
and  there,  by  a feeble  rush-candle 
which  was  to  burn  all  night.  Still, 
there  was  one  late  shop  at  no  great 
distance,  which  sent  forth  a ruddy  glare 
upon  the  pavement  even  yet,  and  looked 
bright  and  companionable.  But  in  a 
little  time  this  closed,  the  light  was 
extinguished,  and  all  was  gloomy  and 
quiet,  except  when  some  stray  footsteps 
sounded  on  the  pavement,  or  a neigh- 
bor, out  later  than  his  wont,  knocked 
lustily  at  his  house  door  to  rouse  the 
sleeping  inmates. 

When  the  night  had  worn  away  thus 
far  (and  seldom  now  until  it  had),  the 
child  would  close  the  window,  and  steal 
softly  down  stairs,  thinking  as  she  went, 
that  if  one  of  those  hideous  faces  below, 
which  often  mingled  with  her  dreams, 
were  to  meet  her  by  the  way,  rendering 
itself  visible  by  some  strange  light  of  its 
own,  how  terrified  she  would  be.  But 
these  fears  vanished  before  a well- 
trimmed  lamp  and  the  familiar  aspect  of 
her  own  room.  After  praying  fervently, 
and  with  many  bursting  tears,  for  the 
old  man  and  the  restoration  of  his 
peace  of  mind  and  the  happiness  they 


had  once  enjoyed,  she  would  lay  her 
head  upon  the  pillow  and  sob  herself  to 
sleep,  often  starting  up  again,  before 
the  daylight  came,  to  listen  for  the  bell, 
and  respond  to  the  imaginary  summons 
which  had  roused  her  from  her  slum- 
ber. 

One  night,  the  third  after  Nelly’s  in- 
terview with  Mrs.  Quilp,  the  old  man, 
who  had  been  weak  and  ill  all  day,  said 
he  should  not  leave  home.  The  child’s 
eyes  sparkled  at  the  intelligence,  but  her 
joy  subsided  when  they  reverted  to  his 
worn  and  sickly  face. 

“Two  days,”  he  said,  “two  whole, 
clear  days  have  passed,  and  there  is  no 
reply.  What  did  he  tell  thee,  Nell?” 

“ Exactly  what  I told  you,  dear 
grandfather,  indeed.” 

“True,”  said  the  old  man,  faintly. 
“Yes.  But  tell  me  again,  Nell.  My 
head  fails  me.  What  was  it  that  he 
told  thee?  Nothing  more  than  that  he 
would  see  me  to-morrow  or  next  day? 
That  was  in  the  note.” 

“Nothing  more,”  said  the  child. 
“ Shall  I go  to  him  again  to-morrow, 
dear  grandfather?  Very  early?  I will 
be  there  and  back  before  breakfast.” 
The  old  man  shook  his  head,  and, 
sighing  mournfully,  drew  her  towards 
him. 

“ ’T  would  be  of  no  use,  my  dear,  no 
earthly  use.  But  if  he  deserts  me, 
Nell,  at  this  moment, — if  he  deserts 
me  now,  when  I should,  with  his  assist- 
ance, be  recompensed  for  all  the  time 
and  money  I have  lost,  and  all  the  ago- 
ny of  mind  I have  undergone,  which 
makes  me  what  you  see,  — I am  ruined, 
and  — worse,  far  worse  than  that  — 
have  ruined  thee,  for  whom  I ventured 
all.  If  we  are  beggars — ! ” 

“What  if  we  are?”  said  the  child, 
boldly.  “ Let  us  be  beggars  and  be 
happy.” 

“Beggars  — and  happy!”  said  the 
old  man.  “Poor  child!” 

“Dear  grandfather,”  cried  the  girl, 
with  an  energy  which  shone  in  her 
flushed  face,  trembling  voice,  and  im- 
passioned gesture,  “ I am  not  a child 
in  that,  I think,  but  even  if  I am,  O 
hear  me  pray  that  we  may  beg,  or  work 
in  open  roads  or  fields  to  earn  a scanty 
living,  rather  than  live  as  we  do  now.” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


Si 


**  Nelly  ! ” said  the  old  man. 

“ Yes,  yes,  rather  than  live  as  we  do 
now,”  the  child  repeated,  more  ear- 
nestly than  before.  “If  you  are  sorrow- 
ful, let  me  know  why  and  be  sorrowful 
too  ; if  you  waste  away  and  are  paler 
and  weaker  every  day,  let  me  be  your 
nurse  and  try  to  comfort  you ; if  you 
are  poor,  let  us  be  poor  together  ; but 
let  me  be  with  you,  do  let  me  be  with 
you ; do  not  let  me  see  such  change  and 
not  know  why,  or  I shall  break  my 
heart  and  die.  Dear  grandfather,  let 
us  leave  this  sad  place  to-morrow,  and 
beg  our  way  from  door  to  door.” 

The  old  man  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands,  and  hid  it  in  the  pillow  of 
the  couch  on  which  he  lay. 

“ Let  us  be  beggars,”  said  the  child, 
passing  an  arm  round  his  neck.  “ I have 
no  fear  but  we  shall  have  enough  ; I am 
sure  we  shall.  Let  us  walk  through 
country  places,  and  sleep  in  fields  and 
under  trees,  and  never  think  of  money 
again,  or  anything  that  can  make  you 
sad,  but  rest  at  nights,  and  have  the  sun 
and  wind  upon  our  faces  in  the  day, 
and  thank  God  together  ! Let  us  never 
set  foot  in  dark  rooms  or  melancholy 
houses  any  more,  but  wander  up  and 
down  wherever  we  like  to  go  ; and 
when  you  are  tired,  you  shall  stop  to 
rest  in  the  pleasantest  place  that  we 
can  find,  and  I will  go  and  beg  for 
both.” 

The  child’s  voice  was  lost  in  sobs  as 
she  dropped  upon  the  old  man’s  neck  ; 
nor  did  she  weep  alone. 

These  were  not  words  for  other  ears, 
nor  was  it  a scene  for  other  eyes.  And 
yet  other  ears  and  eyes  were  there  and 
greedily  taking  in  all  that  passed,  and 
moreover  they  were  the  ears  and  eyes 
of  no  less  a person  than  Mr.  Daniel 
Quilp,  who,  having  entered  unseen 
when  the  child  first  placed  herself  at 
the  old  man’s  side,  refrained  — actu- 
ated, no  doubt,  by  motives  of  the  pur- 
est delicacy  — from  interrupting  the 
conversation,  and  stood  looking  on  with 
his  accustomed  grin.  Standing,  how- 
ever, being  a tiresome  attitude  to  a gen- 
tleman already  fatigued  with  walking, 
and  the  dwarf  being  one  of  that  kind  of 
persons  who  usually  make  themselves 
at  home,  he  soon  cast  his  eyes  upon  a 


chair,  into  which  he  skipped  with  un- 
common agility,  and  perching  himself 
on  the  back,  with  his  feet  upon  the  seat, 
was  thus  enabled  to  look  on  and  listen 
with  greater  comfort  to  himself,  besides 
gratifying  at  the  same  time  that  taste 
for  doing  something  fantastic  and  mon- 
key-like which  on  all  occasions  had 
strong  possession  of  him.  Here,  then, 
he  sat,  one  leg  cocked  carelessly  over 
the  other,  his  chin  resting  on  the  palm 
of  his  hand,  his  head  turned  a little  on 
one  side,  and  his  ugly  features  twisted 
into  a complacent  grimace.  And  in 
this  position  the  old  man,  happening 
in  course  of  time  to  look  that  way,  at 
length  chanced  to  see  him,  to  his  un- 
bounded astonishment. 

The  child  uttered  a suppressed  shriek 
on  beholding  this  agreeable  figure.  In 
their  first  surprise  both  she  and  the  old 
man,  not  knowing  w'hat  to  say,  and  half 
doubting  its  reality,  looked  shrinkingly 
at  it.  Not  at  all  disconcerted  by  tins 
reception,  Daniel  Quilp  preserved  the 
same  attitude,  merely  nodding  twice  or 
thrice  with  great  condescension.  At 
length  the  old  man  pronounced  his 
name,  and  inquired  how  he  came 
there. 

“Through  the  door,”  said  Quilp, 
pointing  over  his  shoulder  with  his 
thumb.  “ I ’m  not  quite  small  enough 
to  get  through  keyholes.  I wish  I 
was.  I want  to  have  some  talk  with 
you,  particularly,  and  in  private,  — with 
nobody  present,  neighbor.  Good  by, 
little  Nelly.” 

Nell  looked  at  the  old  man,  who  nod- 
ded to  her  to  retire,  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

“Ah  ! ” said  the  dwarf,  smacking  his 
lips,  “ what  a nice  kiss  that  was,  — just 
upon  the  rosy  part.  What  a capital 
kiss  ! ” 

Nell  was  none  the  slower  in  going 
away  for  this  remark.  Quilp  looked 
after  her  with  an  admiring  leer,  and 
when  she  had  closed  the  door,  fell  to 
complimenting  the  old  man  upon  her 
charms. 

“ Such  a fresh,  blooming,  modest  little 
bud,  neighbor,”  said  Quilp,  nursing  his 
short  leg,  and  making  his  eyes  twinkle 
very  much,  — “ such  a chubby,  rosy, 
cosey  little  Nell ! ” 

The  old  man  answered  by  a forced 


52 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


smile,  and  was  plainly  struggling  with 
a feeling  of  the  keenest  and  most  ex- 
quisite impatience.  It  was  not  lost 
upon  Quilp,  who  delighted  in  tortur- 
ing him,  or  indeed  anybody  else  when 
he  could. 

“ She ’s  so,”  said  Quilp,  speaking  very 
slowly,  and  feigning  to  be  quite  absorbed 
in  the  subject,  — ‘‘so  small,  so  compact, 
so  beautifully  modelled,  so  fair,  with  such 
blue  veins,  and  such  a transparent  skin, 
and  such  little  feet,  and  such  winning 
ways — but  bless  me,  you’re  nervous! 
Why,  neighbor,  what’s  the  matter?  I 
swear  to  you,”  continued  the  dwarf, 
dismounting  from  the  chair  and  sitting 
down  in  it,  with  a careful  slowness  of 
gesture  very  different  from  the  rapidi- 
ty with  which  he  had  sprung  up  un- 
heard, — “I  swear  to  you  that  I had 
no  idea  old  blood  ran  so  fast  or  kept 
so  warm.  I thought  it  was  sluggish  in 
its  course,  and  cool,  quite  cool.  I am 
pretty  sure  it  ought  to  be.  Yours 
must  be  out  of  order,  neighbor.” 

“ I believe  it  is,”  groaned  the  old  man, 
clasping  his  head  with  both  hands. 
“ There ’s  burning  fever  here,  and 
something  now  and  then  to  which  I 
fear  to  give  a name.” 

The  dwarf  said  never  a w’ord,  but 
watched  his  companion  as  lie  paced 
restlessly  up  and  down  the  room,  and 
resently  returned  to  his  seat.  Here 
e remained,  with  his  head  bowed  up- 
on his  breast  for  some  time,  and  then, 
suddenly  raising  it,  said,  — 

“ Once,  and  once  for  all,  have  you 
brought  me  any  money  ? ” 

“ No  ! ” returned  Quilp. 

“ Then,”  said  the  old  man,  clenching 
his  hands  desperately,  and  looking  up- 
ward, “the  child  and  I are  lost ! ” 

“ Neighbor,”  said  Quilp,  glancing 
sternly  at  him,  and  beating  his  hand 
twice  or  thrice  upon  the  table  to  at- 
tract his  wandering  attention,  “ let  me 
be  plain  with  you,  and  play  a fairer 
game  than  when  you  held  all  the 
cards,  and  I saw  but  the  backs  and 
nothing  more.  You  have  no  secret 
from  me,  now.” 

The  old  man  looked  up,  trembling. 
“You  are  surprised,”  said  Quilp. 
“ Well,  perhaps  that ’s  natural.  You 
have  no  secret  from  me  now,  I say; 


no,  not  one.  For  now  I know  that 
all  those  sums  of  money,  that  all  those 
loans,  advances,  and  supplies  that  you 
have  had  from  me,  have  found  their  way 
to  — shall  I say  the  word  ? ” 

“ Ay  ! ” replied  the  old  man,  “ say  it 
if  you  will.” 

“To  the  gaming-table,”  rejoined 
Quilp,  “ your  nightly  haunt.  This  was 
the  precious  scheme  to  make  your  for- 
tune, was  it  ? this  was  the  secret  certain 
source  of  wealth  in  which  I was  to  have 
sunk  my  money'  (if  I had  been  the  fool 
you  took  me  for) ; this  was  your  inex- 
haustible mine  of  gold,  your  El  Do- 
rado, eh?” 

“ Yes,”  cried  the  old  man,  turning  up- 
on him  with  gleaming  eyes,  “it  was.  It 
is.  It  will  be,  till  I die.” 

“That  I should  have  been  blinded,” 
said  Quilp,  looking  contemptuously  at 
him,  “ by  a mere  shallow  gambler  ! ” 

“ I am  no  gambler, ’’cried  the  old  man, 
fiercely.  “ I call  Heaven  to  witness  that 
I never  played  for  gain  of  mine  or  love 
of  play  ; that  at  every  piece  I staked  I 
whispered  to  myself  that  orphan’s  name, 
and  called  on  Heaven  to  bless  the  ven- 
ture ; — which  it  never  did.  Whom  did 
it  prosper  ? Who  were  those  with  whom 
I played?  Men  who  lived  by  plunder, 
profligacy,  and  riot,  squandering  their 
gold  in  doing  ill,  and  propagating  vice 
and  evil.  My  winnings  would  have  been 
from  them  ; my  winnings  would  have 
been  bestowed  to  the  last  farthing  on 
a young,  sinless  child,  whose  life  they 
would  have  sweetened  and  made  hap- 
py. What  would  they  have  contract- 
ed ? The  means  of  corruption,  wretch- 
edness, and  misery.  Who  would  not 
have  hoped  in  such  a cause? — tell  me 
that ! Who  would  not  have  hoped  as 
I did?” 

“ When  did  you  first  begin  this  mad  l 
career  ? ” asked  Quilp,  his  taunting  in- 
clination  subdued,  for  a moment,  by 
the  old  man’s  grief  and  wildness. 

“When  did  I first  begin?”  he  re-  I 
joined,  passing  his  hand  across  his  | 
brow.  “When  was  it  that  I first  be-  ; 
an?  When  should  it  be  but  when  I 
egan  to  think  how  little  I had  saved, 
how  long  a time  it  took  to  save  at  all, 
how  short  a time  I might  have  at  my 
age  to  live,  and  how  she  would  be  left 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


S3 


to  the  rough  mercies  of  the  world,  with 
barely  enough  to  keep  her  from  the 
sorrows  that  wait  on  poverty;  then  it 
was  that  I began  to  think  about  it.” 
“After  you  first  came  to  me  to  get 
your  precious  grandson  packed  off  to 
sea?”  said  Quilp. 

“ Shortly  after  that,”  replied  the  old 
man.  “ I thought  of  it  a long  time, 
and  had  it  In  my  sleep  for  months. 
Then  I began.  I found  no  pleasure  in 
it,  I expected  none.  What  has  it  ever 
brought  to  me  but  anxious  days  and 
sleepless  nights,  but  loss  of  health  and 
peace  of  mind,  and  gain  of  feebleness 
and  sorrow  ! ” 

“ You  lost  what  money  you  had  laid 
by,  first,  and  then  came  to  me.  While 
I thought  you  were  making  your  for- 
tune (as  you  said  you  were)  you  were 
making  yourself  a beggar,  eh?  Dear 
me  ! And  so  it  comes  to  pass  that  I 
hold  every  security  you  could  scrape  to- 
gether, and  a bill  of  sale  upon  the  — 
upon  the  stock  and  property,”  said 
Quilp,  standing  up  and  looking  about 
him,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  none  of 
it  had  been  taken  away.  “ But  did  you 
never  win  ? ” 

“ Never ! ” groaned  the  old  man. 
“Never  won  back  my  loss  ! ” 

“ I thought,”  sneered  the  dwarf,  “ that 
if  a man  played  long  enough,  he  was 
sure  to  win  at  last,  or,  at  the  worst,  not 
to  come  off  a loser.” 

“And  so  he  is,”  cried  the  old  man, 
suddenly  rousing  himself  from  his  state 
of  despondency,  and  lashed  into  the 
most  violent  excitement,  — “ so  he  is.  I 
have  felt  that  from  the  first,  I have  al- 
ways known  it,  I ’ve  seen  it,  I never  felt 
it  half  so  strongly  as  I feel  it  now. 
Quilp,  I have  dreamed,  three  nights,  of 
winning  the  same  large  sum.  I never 
could  dream  that  dream  before,  though 
I have  often  tried.  Do  not  desert  me, 
now  I have  this  chance.  I have  no 
resource  but  you  ; give  me  some  help  ; 
let  me  try  this  one  last  hope.” 

The  dwarf  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  shook  his  head. 

“ See,  Quilp,  good,  tender-hearted 
Quilp,”  said  the  old  man,  drawing 
some  scraps  of  paper  from  his  pocket 
with  a trembling  hand,  and  clasping  the 
dwarfs  arm,  — “only  see  here.  Look  at 


these  figures,  the  result  of  long  calcula 
tion  and  painful  and  hard  experience. 
I must  win.  I only  want  a little  help 
once  more,  a few  pounds,  but  twoscore 
pounds,  dear  Quilp.” 

“ The  last  advance  was  seventy,” 
said  the  dwarf;  “and  it  went  in  one 
night.” 

“I  know  it  did,”  answered  the  old 
man,  “but  that  was  the  very  worst  for- 
tune of  all,  and  the  time  had  not  come 
then.  Quilp,  consider,  consider,”  the 
old  man  cried,  trembling  so  much,  the 
while,  that  the  papers  in  his  hand  flut- 
tered as  if  they  were  shaken  by  the 
wind,  “that  orphan  child!  If  I were 
alone,  I could  die  with  gladness,  — per- 
haps even  anticipate  that  doom  which 
is  dealt  out  so  unequally,  coming  as  it 
does  on  the  proud  and  happy  in  their 
strength,  and  shunning  the  needy  and 
afflicted  and  all  who  court  it  in  their 
despair,  — but  what  I have  done  has 
been  for  her.  Help  me  for  her  sake  I 
implore  you,  — not  for  mine,  for  hers  ! ” 

“ I ’m  sorry  l ’ve  got  an  appointment 
in  the  city,”  said  Quilp,  looking  at  his 
watch  with  perfect  self-possession,  “or 
I should  have  been  very  glad  to  have 
spent  half  an  hour  with  you,  while  you 
composed  yourself,  — very  glad.” 

“Nay,  Quilp,  good  Quilp,”  gasped 
the  old  man,  catching  at  his  skirts,  — 
“you  and  I have  talked  together,  more 
than  once,  of  her  poor  mother’s  story. 
The  fear  of  her  coming  to  poverty  has 
perhaps  been  bred  in  me  by  that.  Do 
not  be  hard  upon  me,  but  take  that  in- 
to account.  You  are  a great  gainer  by 
me.  Oh,  spare  me  the  money  for  this 
one  last  hope  ! ” 

“ I could  n’t  do  it,  really,”  said  Quilp, 
with  unusual  politeness,  “though  I tell 
you  what,  — and  this  is  a circumstance 
worth  bearing  in  mind  as  showing  how 
the  sharpest  among  us  may  be  taken  in 
sometimes,  — I was  so  deceived  by  the 
penurious  way  in  which  you  lived,  alone 
with  Nelly  — ” 

“All  done  to  save  money  for  tempt- 
ing fortune,  and  to  make  her  triumph 
greater,”  cried  the  old  man. 

“Yes,  yes,  I understand  that  now?” 
said  Quilp  ; “but  I was  going  to  say,  I 
was  so  deceived  by  that,  your  miserly 
way,  the  reputation  you  had,  among 


54 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


those  who  knew  you,  of  being  rich,  and 
your  repeated  assurances  that  you  would 
make  of  my  advances  treble  and  quad- 
ruple the  interest  you  paid  me,  that  I ’d 
have  advanced  you,  even  now,  what 
you  want,  on  your  simple  note  of  hand, 
if  I hadn’t  unexpectedly  become  ac- 
quainted with  your  secret  way  of  life.” 
“Who  is  it,”  retorted  the  old  man, 
desperately,  “that,  notwithstanding  all 
my  caution,  told  you.  Come.  Let  me 
know  the  name,  — the  person.” 

The  crafty  dwarf,  bethinking  himself 
that  his  giving  up  the  child  would  lead 
to  the  disclosure  of  the  artifice  he  had 
employed,  which,  as  nothing  was  to  be 
gained  by  it,  it  was  well  to  conceal, 
stopped  short  in  his  answer  and  said, 
“Now,  who  do  you  think?” 

“ It  was  Kit;  it  must  have  been  the 
boy.  He  played  the  spy,  and  you  tam- 
pered with  him?  ” said  the  old  man. 

“ How  came  you  to  think  of  him?” 
said  the  dwarf,  in  a tone  of  great  commis- 
eration. “ Yes,  it  was  Kit.  Poor  Kit  ! ” 
So  saying,  he  nodded  in  a friendly 
manner,  and  took  his  leave,  stopping 
when  he  had  passed  the  outer  door  a 
little  distance,  and  grinning  with  ex- 
traordinary delight. 

“ Poor  Kit ! ” muttered  Quilp.  “ I 
think  it  was  Kit  who  said  I was  an  ug- 
lier dwarf  than  could  be  seen  anywhere 
for  a penny,  wasn’t  it?  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Poor  Kit ! ” 

And  with  that  he  went  his  way,  still 
chuckling  as  he  went. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Daniel  Quilp  neither  entered  nor 
left  the  old  man’s  house  unobserved. 
In  the  shadow  of  an  archway  nearly 
opposite,  leading  to  one  of  the  many 
passages  which  diverged  from  the  main 
street,  there  lingered  one  who,  having 
taken  up  his  position  when  the  twilight 
first  came  on,  still  maintained  it  with 
undiminished  patience,  and  leaning 
against  the  wall  with  the  manner  of  a 
person  who  had  a long  time  to  wait,  and, 
being  well  used  to  it,  was  quite  resigned, 
scarcely  changed  his  attitude  for  the 
hour  together. 


This  patient  lounger  attracted  little 
attention  from  any  of  those  who  passed, 
and  bestowed  as  little  upon  them.  His 
eyes  were  constantly  directed  towards 
one  object,  — the  window  at  which  the 
child  was  accustomed  to  sit.  If  he 
withdrew  them  for  a moment,  it  was 
only  to  glance  at  a clock  in  some  neigh- 
boring shop,  and  then  to  strain  his 
sight  once  more  in  thef  old  quarter, 
with  increased  earnestness  and  atten- 
tion. 

It  has  been  remarked,  that  this  per- 
sonage evinced  no  weariness  in  his  place 
of  concealment ; nor  did  he,  long  as  his 
waiting  was.  But  as  the  time  went  cm 
he  manifested  some  anxiety  and  sur- 
prise, glancing  at  the  clock  more  fre- 
quently and  at  the  window  less  hope- 
fully than  before.  At  length  the  clock 
was  hidden  from  his  sight  by  some  en- 
vious shutters,  then  the  church-steeples 
proclaimed  eleven  at  night,  then  the 
quarter  past,  and  then  the  conviction 
seemed  to  obtrude  itself  on  his  mind 
that  it  was  of  no  use  tarrying  there  any 
longer. 

That  the  conviction  was  an  unwel- 
come one,  and  that  he  was  by  no  means 
willing  to  yield  to  it,  was  apparent  from 
his  reluctance  to  quit  the  spot,  from  the 
tardy  steps  with  which  he  often  left  it, 
still  looking  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
same  window,  and  from  the  precipita- 
tion with  which  he  as  often  returned, 
when  a fancied  noise,  or  the  changing 
and  imperfect  light,  induced^  him  to 
suppose  it  had  been  softly  raised.  At 
length  he  gave  the  matter  up,  as  hope- 
less for  that  night,  and  suddenly  break- 
ing into  a run,  as  though  to  force  him- 
self away,  scampered  off  at  his  utmost 
speed,  nor  once  ventured  to  look  behind 
him,  lest  he  should  be  tempted  back 
again. 

Without  relaxing  his  pace,  or  stop- 
ping to  take  breath,  this  mysterious 
individual  dashed  on  through  a great 
many  alleys  and  narrow  ways,  until  he 
at  length  arrived  in  a square-paved 
court,  when  he  subsided  into  a walk, 
and,  making  for  a small  house  from  the 
window  of  which  a light  wa§  shining, 
lifted  the  latch  of  the  door  and  passed 
in. 

“ Bless  us ! ” cried  a woman,  turning 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  Or  ILLINOIS 


KIT, 


HIS  MOTHER,  JACOB,  AND  THE  BABY. 


i 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


55 


sharply  round,  “who ’s  that  ? O,  it ’s 
you,  Kit  ! ” 

“Yes,  mother,  it ’s  me.” 

“ Why,  how  tired  you  look,  my 
dear  ! ” 

“ Old  master  ain’t  gone  out  to-night,” 
said  Kit;  “and  so  she  hasn’t  been  at 
the  window  at  all.”  With  which  words 
he  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  looked 
very  mournful  and  discontented. 

The  room  in  which  Kit  sat  himself 
down,  in  this  condition,  was  an  extreme- 
ly poor  and  homely  place,  but  with  that 
air  of  comfort  about  it,  nevertheless, 
which  — or  the  spot  must  be  a wretched 
one  indeed  — cleanliness  and  order  can 
always  impart  in  some  degree.  Late  as 
the  Dutch  clock  showed  it  to  be,  the 
poor  woman  was  still  hard  at  work  at 
an  ironing-table  ; a young  child  lay 
sleeping  in  a cradle  near  the  fire ; and 
another,  a sturdy  boy  of  two  or  three 
years  old,  very  wide  awake,  with  a 
very  tight  nightcap  on  his  head,  and  a 
nightgown  very  much  too  small  for 
him  on  his  body,  was  sitting  bolt  up- 
right in  a clothes-basket,  staring  over 
the  rim  with  his  great  round  eyes,  and 
looking  as  if  he  had  thoroughly  made 
up  his  mind  never  to  go  to  sleep  any 
more;  which,  as  he  had  already  de- 
clined to  take  his  natural  rest,  and 
had  been  brought  out  of  bed  in  conse- 
quence, opened  a cheerful  prospect  for 
his  relations  and  friends.  It  was  rath- 
er a queer-looking  family,  — Kit,  his 
mother,  and  the  children  being  all 
strongly  alike. 

Kit  was  disposed  to  be  out  of  temper, 
as  the  best  of  us  are  too  often  ; but  he 
looked  at  the  youngest  child  who  was 
sleeping  soundly,  and  from  him  to  his 
other  brother  in  the  clothes-basket,  and 
from  him  to  their  mother,  who  had  been 
at  work  without  complaint  since  morn- 
ing, and  thought  it  would  be  a better 
and  kinder  thing  to  be  good-humored. 
So  he  rocked  the  cradle  with  his  foot, 
made  a face  at  the  rebel  in  the  clothes- 
basket,  w’hich  put  him  in  high  good- 
humor  directly,  and  stoutly  determined 
to  be  talkative  and  make  himself  agree- 
able. 

“ Ah,  mother  ! ” said  Kit,  taking  out 
his  clasp-knife  and  falling  upon  a great 
piece  of  bread  and  meat  which  she  had 


had  ready  for  him  hours  before,  “ what 
a one  you  are  ! There  ain’t  many  such 
as  you,  I know.” 

“ I hope  there  are  many  a great  deal 
better,  Kit,”  said  Mrs.  Nubbles  ; “and 
that  there  are,  or  ought  to  be,  accordin’ 
to  what  the  parson  at  chapel  says.” 

“ Much  he  knows  about  it,”  re- 
turned Kit,  contemptuously.  “Wait 
till  he ’s  a widder  and  works  like  you 
do,  and  gets  as  little,  and  does  as  much, 
and  keeps  his  spirits  up  the  same,  and 
then  I ’ll  ask  him  what ’s  o’clock,  and 
trust  him  for  being  right  to  half  a 
second.” 

“ Well,”  said  Mrs.  Nubbles,  evading 
the  point,  “your  beer’s  down  thereby 
the  fender,  Kit.” 

“ I see,”  replied  her  son,  taking  up 
the  porter-pot.  “ My  love  to  you,  moth- 
er. And  the  parson’s  health,  too,  if  you 
like.  I don’t  bear  him  any  malice,  not 
I ! ” 

“Did  you  tell  me,  just  now,  that  your 
master  hadn’t  gone  out  to-night? ” in- 
quired Mrs.  Nubbles. 

“Yes,”  said  Kit,  “worse  luck.” 

“You  should  say  better  luck,  I 
think,”  returned  his  mother,  “because 
Miss  Nelly  won’t  have  been  left  alone.” 

“Ah!”  said  Kit,  “I  forgot  that.  I 
said  worse  luck,  because  I ’ve  been 
watching  ever  since  eight  o’clock,  and 
seen  nothing  of  her.” 

“I  wonder  what  she’d  say,”  cried 
his  mother,  stopping  in  her  work,  and 
looking  round,  “if  she  knew  that  every 
night  when  she  — poor  thing  — is  sitting 
alone  at  that  window,  you  are  watching 
in  the  open  street  for  fear  any  harm 
should  come  to  her,  and  that  you  never 
leave  the  place  or  come  home  to  your 
bed,  though  you  ’re  ever  so  tired,  till 
such  time  as  you  think  she ’s  safe  in 
hers.” 

“ Never  mind  what  she ’d  say,”  re- 
plied Kit,  with  something  like  a blush 
on  his  uncouth  face;  “she’ll  never 
know  nothing,  and,  consequently,  she  ’ll 
never  say  nothing.” 

Mrs.  Nubbles  ironed  away  in  silence 
for  a minuter  or  two,  and,  coming  to 
the  fireplace  for  another  iron,  glanced 
stealthily  at  Kit  while  she  rubbed  it  on 
a board  and  dusted  it  with  a duster,  but 
said  nothing  until  she  had  returned  to 


56 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


her  table  again  ; when,  holding  the  iron 
at  an  alarming  short  distance  from  her 
cheek,  to  test  its  temperature,  and  look- 
ing round  with  a smile,  she  observed,  — 
“ I know  what  some  people  would 
say,  Kit  — ” 

“ Nonsense,”  interposed  Kit,  with  a 
perfect  apprehension  of  what  was  to 
follow. 

“ No,  but  they  would  indeed.  Some 
people  would  say  that  you ’d  fallen  in 
love  with  her,  I know  they  would.” 

To  this  Kit  only  replied  by  bashfully 
bidding  his  mother  ‘‘get  out,”  and 
forming  sundry  strange  figures  with  his 
legs  and  arms,  accompanied  by  sym- 
pathetic contortions  of  his  face.  Not 
deriving  from  these  means  the  relief 
which  he  sought,  he  bit  off  an  immense 
mouthful  from  the  bread  and  meat,  and 
took  a quick  drink  of  the  porter ; by 
which  artificial  aids  he  choked  himself 
and  effected  a diversion  of  the  subject. 

“ Speaking  seriously,  though,  Kit,” 
said  his  mother,  taking  up  the  theme 
afresh  after  a time,  “ for  of  course  I was 
only  in  joke  just  now,  it’s  very  good 
and  thoughtful,  and  like  you,  to  do  this 
and  never  let  anybody  know  it,  though 
some  day  I hope  she  may  come  to 
know  it,  for  I ’m  sure  she  would  be  very 
grateful  to  you  and  feel  it  very  much. 
It ’s  a cruel  thing  to  keep  the  dear 
child  shut  up  there.  I don’t  wonder 
that  the  old  gentleman  wants  to  keep 
it  from  you.” 

“ He  don’t  think  it ’s  cruel,  bless 
ou,”  said  Kit,  “and  don’t  mean  it  to 
e so,  or  he  would  n’t  do  it,  — I do  con- 
sider, mother,  that  he  would  n’t  do  it 
for  all  the  gold  and  silver  in  the  world. 
No,  no,  that  he  would  n’t.  I know  him 
better  than  that.” 

“ Then  what  does  he  do  it  for,  and 
why  does  he  keep  it  so  close  from  you  ? ” 
said  Mrs.  Nubbles. 

“ That  I don’t  know,”  returned  her 
son.  “ If  he  had  n’t  tried  to  keep  it  so 
close,  though,  I should  never  have  found 
it  out ; for  it  was  his  getting  me  away  at 
night,  and  sending  me  off  so  much  ear- 
lier than  he  used  to,  that  first  made  me 
curious  to  know  what  was  going  on. 
Hark  ! what ’s  that?  ” 

“ ft’s  only  somebody  outside.” 

“ It’s  somebody  crossing  over  here,” 


said  Kit,  standing  up  to  listen,  “and 
coming  very  fast,  too.  He  can’t  have 
gone  out  after  I left,  and  the  house 
caught  fire,  mother  ! ” 

The  boy  stood,  for  a moment,  really 
bereft,  by  the  apprehension  he  had  con- 
jured up,  of  the  power  to  move.  The 
footsteps  drew  nearer,  the  door  was 
opened  with  a hasty  hand,  and  the  child 
herself,  pale  and  breathless,  and  hastily 
wrapped  in  a few  disordered  garments, 
hurried  into  the  room. 

“ Miss  Nelly  ! What  is  the  matter ! ” 
cried  mother  and  son  together. 

“ I must  not  stay  a moment,”  she 
returned.  “ Grandfather  has  been  taken 
very  ill.  I found  him  in  a fit  upon  the 
floor  — ” 

“ I ’ll  run  for  a doctor,”  said  Kit, 
seizing  his  brimless  hat.  “ I ’ll  be 
there  directly,  I’ll — ” 

“No,  no,”  cried  Nell,  “there  is  one 
there  ; you  ’re  not  wanted,  you  — you  — 
must  never  come  near  us  any  more  ! ” 

“ What  ! ” roared  Kit. 

“ Never  again,”  said  the  child. 
“ Don’t  ask  me  why,  for  I don’t  know. 
Pray  don’t  ask  me  why,  pray  don’t  be 
sorry,  pray  don’t  be  vexed  with  me  ! I 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it  indeed  ! ” 

Kit  looked  at  her  with  his  eyes 
stretched  wide,  and  opened  and  shut 
his  mouth  a great  many  times,  but 
couldn’t  get  out  one  word. 

“ He  complains  and  raves  of  you,” 
said  the  child.  “ I don’t  know  what  you 
have  done,  but  I hope  it ’s  nothing  very 
bad.” 

“ / done  ? ” roared  Kit. 

“He  cries  that  you’re  the  cause  of 
all  his  misery,”  returned  the  child  with 
tearful  eyes  ; “ he  screamed  and  called 
for  you  ; they  say  you  must  not  come 
near  him  or  he  will  die.  You  must  not 
return  to  us  any  more.  I came  to  tell 
you.  I thought  it  would  be  better  that 
I should  come  than  somebody  quite 
strange.  O Kit,  what  have  you  done  ? 
you  in  whom  I trusted  so  much,  and 
who  were  almost  the  only  friend  I 
had  ! ” 

The  unfortunate  Kit  looked  at  his 
young  mistress  harder  and  harder,  and 
with  eyes  growing  wider  and  wider,  but 
was  perfectly  motionless  and  silent. 

“I  have  brought  his  money  for  the 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


57 


week,”  said  the  child,  looking  to  the 
woman  and  laying  it  on  the  table, 
“ and  — and  — a little  more,  for  he  was 
always  good  and  kind  to  me.  I hope 
he  will  be  sorry  and  do  well  somewhere 
else  and  not  take  this  to  heart  too  much. 
It  grieves  me  very  much  to  part  with 
him  like  this,  but  there  is  no  help.  It 
must  be  done.  Good  night ! ” 

With  the  tears  streaming  down  her 
face,  and  her  slight  figure  trembling 
with  the  agitation  of  the  scene  she  had 
left,  the  shock  she  had  received,  the 
errand  she  had  just  discharged,  and  a 
thousand  painful  and  affectionate  feel- 
ings, the  child  hastened  to  the  door, 
and  disappeared  as  rapidly  as  she  had 
come. 

The  poor  woman,  who  had  no  cause 
to  doubt  her  son,  but  every  reason  for 
relying  on  his  honesty  and  truth,  was 
staggered,  notwithstanding,  by  his  not 
having  advanced  one  word  in  his  de- 
fence. Visions  of  gallantry,  knavery, 
robbery,  and  of  the  nightly  absences 
from  home,  for  which  he  had  accounted 
so  strangely,  having  been  occasioned 
by  some  unlawful  pursuit,  flocked  into 
her  brain  and  rendered  her  afraid  to 
question  him.  She  rocked  herself  up- 
on a chair,  wringing  her  hands  and 
weeping  bitterly;  but  Kit  made  no  at- 
tempt to  comfort  her,  and  remained 
quite  bewildered.  The  baby  in  the 
cradle  woke  up  and  cried ; the  boy  in 
the  clothes-basket  fell  over  on  his  back, 
with  the  basket  upon  him,  and  was  seen 
no  more  ; the  mother  wept  louder  yet 
and  rocked  faster ; but  Kit,  insensible  to 
all  the  din  and  tumult,  remained  in  a 
state  of  utter  stupefaction. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Quiet  and  solitude  were  destined  to 
hold  uninterrupted  rule  no  longer  be- 
neath the  roof  that  sheltered  the  child. 
Next  morning  the  old  man  was  in  a 
raging  fever  accompanied  with  delirium  ; 
and,  sinking  under  the  influence  of  this 
disorder,  he  lay  for  many  weeks  in  im- 
minent peril  of  his  life.  There  was 
watching  enough,  now,  but  it  was  the 
watching  of  strangers  who  made  a 


greedy  trade  of  it,  and  who,  in  the  inter- 
vals of  their  attendance  upon  the  sick 
man,  huddled  together  with  a ghastly 
good-fellowship,  and  ate  and  drunk  and 
made  merry ; for  disease  and  death 
were  their  ordinary  household  gods. 

Yet,  in  all  the  hurry  and  crowding  of 
such  a time,  the  child  was  more  alone 
than  she  had  ever  been  before,  — alone  in 
spirit,  alone  in  her  devotion  to  him  who 
was  wasting  away  upon  his  burning  bed, 
alone  in  her  unfeigned  sorrow  and  her 
unpurchased  sympathy.  Day  after  day, 
and  night  after  night,  found  her  still  by 
the  pillow  of  the  unconscioussufferer,  still 
anticipating  his  every  want,  still  listen- 
ing to  those  repetitions  of  her  name,  and 
those  anxieties  and  cares  for  her,  which 
were  ever  uppermost  among  his  feverish 
wanderings. 

The  house  was  no  longer  theirs. 
Even  the  sick-chamber  seemed  to  be 
retained  on  the  uncertain  tenure  of  Mr. 
Quilp’s  favor.  The  old  man’s  illness 
had  not  lasted  many  days  when  he  took 
formal  possession  of  the  premises,  and 
all  upon  them,  in  virtue  of  certain  legal 
powers  to  that  effect,  which  few  Under- 
stood and  none  presumed  to  call  in 
question.  This  important  step  secured, 
with  the  assistance  of  a man  of  law 
whom  he  brought  with  him  for  the  pur- 
pose, the  dwarf  proceeded  to  establish 
himself  and  his  coadjutor  in  the  house, 
as  an  assertion  of  his  claim  against 
all  comers ; and  then  set  about  making 
his  quarters  comfortable,  after  his  own 
fashion. 

To  this  end,  Mr.  Quilp  encamped  in 
the  back  parlor,  having  first  put  an 
effectual  stop  to  any  further  business  by 
shutting  up  the  shop.  Having  looked 
out,  from  among  the  old  furniture,  the 
handsomest  and  most  commodious  chair 
he  could  possibly  find  (which  he  re- 
served for  his  own  use),  and  an  espe- 
cially hideous  and  uncomfortable  one 
(which  he  considerately  appropriated 
to  the  accommodation  of  his  friend), 
he  caused  them  to  be  carried  into  this 
room,  and  took  up  his  position  in  great 
state.  The  apartment  was  very  far 
removed  from  the  old  man’s  chamber, 
but  Mr.  Quilp  deemed  it  prudent,  as 
a precaution  against  infection  from  fe- 
ver, and  a means  of  wholesome  fumi- 


58 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


gation,  not  only  to  smoke  himself,  with- 
out cessation,  but  to  insist  upon  it  that 
his  legal  friend  did  the  like.  Moreover, 
he  sent  an  express  to  the  wharf  for  the 
tumbling  boy,  who,  arriving  with  all 
despatch,  was  enjoined  to  sit  himself 
down  in  another  chair  just  inside  the 
door,  continually  to  smoke  a great  pipe 
which  the  dwarf  had  provided  for  the 
purpose,  and  to  take  it  from  his  lips 
under  any  pretence  whatever,  were  it 
only  for  one  minute  at  a time,  if  he 
dared.  These  arrangements  complet- 
ed, Mr.  Quilp  looked  round  him  with 
chuckling  satisfaction,  and  remarked 
that  he  called  that  comfort. 

The  legal  gentleman,  whose  melodi- 
ous name  was  Brass,  might  have  called 
it  comfort  also  but  for  two  drawbacks  ; 
one  was,  that  he  could  by  no  exertion 
sit  easy  in  his  chair,  the  seat  of  which 
was  very  hard,  angular,  slippery,  and 
sloping  ; the  other,  that  tobacco-smoke 
always  caused  him  great  internal  dis- 
composure and  annoyance.  But  as  he 
was  quite  a creature  of  Mr.  Quilp’s, 
and  had  a thousand  reasons  for  concili- 
ating* his  good  opinion,  he  tried  to 
smile,  and  nodded  his  acquiescence 
with  the  best  grace  he  could  assume. 

This  Brass  was  an  attorney  of  no 
very  good  repute,  from  Bevis  Marks 
in  the  city  of  London.  He  was  a tall, 
meagre  man,  with  a nose  like  a wen, 
a protruding  forehead,  retreating  eyes, 
and  hair  of  a deep  red.  He  wore  a 
long  black  surtout  reaching  nearly  to 
his  ankles,  short  black  trousers,  high 
shoes,  and  cotton  stockings  of  a bluish 
gray.  He  had  a cringing  manner,  but 
a very  harsh  voice ; and  his  blandest 
smiles  were  so  extremely  forbidding, 
that,  to  have  had  his  company  under 
the  least  repulsive  circumstances,  one 
would  have  wished  him  to  be  out  of 
temper,  that  he  might  only  scowl. 

Quilp  looked  at  his  legal  adviser, 
and  seeing  that  he  was  winking  very 
much  in  the  anguish  of  his  pipe,  that 
he  sometimes  shuddered  when  he  hap- 
pened to  inhale  its  full  flavor,  and 
that  he  constantly  fanned  the  smoke 
from  him,  was  quite  overjoyed  and 
rubbed  his  hands  with  glee. 

“ Smoke  away,  you  dog,”  said  Quilp, 
turning  to  the  boy;  “fill  your  pipe 


again  and  smoke  it  fast,  down  to  the 
last  whiff,  or  I ’ll  put  the  sealing-waxed 
end  of  it  in  the  fire  and  rub  it  red  hot 
upon  your  tongue.” 

Luckily  the  boy  was  case-hardened, 
and  would  have  smoked  a small  lime- 
kiln, if  anybody  had  treated  him  with 
it.  Wherefore,  he  only  muttered  a 
brief  defiance  of  his  master,  and  did 
as  he  was  ordered. 

“ Is  it  good,  Brass,  is  it  nice,  is  it 
fragrant,  do  you  feel  like  the  Grand 
Turk?”  said  Quilp. 

Mr.  Brass  thought  that,  if  he  did, 
the  Grand  Turk’s  feelings  were  by  no 
means  to  be  envied,  but  he  said  it 
was  famous,  and  he  had  no  doubt  he 
felt  very  like  that  Potentate. 

“ This  is  the  way  to  keep  off  fever,” 
said  Quilp;  “this  is  the  way  to  keep 
off  every  calamity  of  life  ! We  ’ll  never 
leave  off,  all  the  time  we  stop  here  — 
smoke  away,  you  dog,  or  you  shall 
swallow  the  pipe  ! ” 

“ Shall  we  stop  here  long,  Mr.  Quilp?” 
inquired  his  legal  friend,  when  the 
dwarf  had  given  his  boy  this  gentle  ad- 
monition. 

“We  must  stop,  I suppose,  till  the 
old  gentleman  up  stairs  is  dead,”  re- 
turned Quilp. 

“ He,  he,  he  ! ” laughed  Brass.  “ O, 
very  good ! ” 

“ Smoke  away  !”  cried  Quilp.  “Nev- 
er#stop  ! you  can  talk  as  you  smoke. 
Don’t  lose  time.” 

“ He,  he,  he  ! ” cried  Brass,  faintly,  as 
he  again  applied  himself  to  the  odious  * 
pipe.  “ But  if  he  should  get  better, 
Mr.  Quilp  ? ” 

“Then  we  shall  stop  till  he  does, 
and  no  longer,”  returned  the  dwarf. 

“ How  kind  it  is  of  you,  sir,  to  wait 
till  then  ! ” said  Brass.  “ Some  peo- 
ple, sir,  would  have  sold  or  removed 
the  goods,  — O dear,  the  very  instant 
the  law  allowed  ’em.  Some  people, 
sir,  would  have  been  all  flintiness  and 
granite.  Some  people,  sir,  would 
have  — ” 

“ Some  people  would  have  spared 
themselves  the  jabbering  of  such  a 
parrot  as  you,”  inteiposed  the  dwarf. 

“ He,  he,  he  ! ” cried  Brass.  “ You 
have  such  spirits!” 

The  smoking  sentinel  at  the  door 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


59 


interposed  in  this  place,  and  without 
taking  his  pipe  from  his  lips,  growled,  — 

“ Here  ’s  the  gal  a cornin’  down.” 

“ The  what,  you  dog  ? ” said  Quilp. 

“ The  gal,”  returned  the  boy.  “ Are 
you  deaf?  ” 

“ Oh  ! ” said  Quilp,  drawing  in  his 
breath  with  great  relish  as  if  he  were 
taking  soup,  “you  and  I will  have  such 
a settling  presently ; there  ’s  such  a 
scratching  and  bruising  in  store  for  you, 
my  dear  young  friend  ! Aha  ! Nelly  ! 
How  is  he  now,  my  duck  of  dia- 
monds?” 

“ He ’s  very  bad,”  replied  the  weep- 
ing child. 

“What  a pretty  little  Nell!”  cried 
Quilp. 

“ O,  beautiful,  sir,  beautiful  indeed,” 
said  Brass.  “ Quite  charming  ! ” 

“ Has  she  come  to  sit  upon  Quilp’s 
knee  ? ” said  the  dwarf,  in  what  he  meant 
to  be  a soothing  tone,  “ or  is  she  going 
to  bed  in  her  own  little  room  inside 
here?  Which  is  poor  Nelly  going  to 
do?” 

“ What  a remarkable  pleasant  way 
he  has  with  children  ! ” muttered  Brass, 
as  if  in  confidence  between  himself  and 
the  ceiling  ; “ upon  my  word,  it  ’s  quite 
a treat  to  hear  him.” 

“ I ’m  not  going  to  stay  at  all,”  fal- 
tered Nell.  “ I want  a few  things  out 
of  that  room,  and  then  I — I — won’t 
come  down  here  any  more.” 

“ And  a very  nice  little  room  it  is  ! ” 
said  the  dwarf,  looking  into  it  as  the 
child  entered.  “Quite  a bower  ! You 
’re  sure  you  ’re  not  going  to  use  it? 
You  ’re  sure  you  ’re  not  coming  back, 
Nelly?” 

“ No,”  replied  the  child,  hurrying 
away  with  the  few  articles  of  dress  she 
had  come  to  remove  ; “ never  again  ! 
Never  again  ! ” 

“ She ’s  very  sensitive,”  said  Quilp, 
looking  after  her,  — “ very  sensitive  ; 
that ’s  a pity.  The  bedstead  is  much 
about  my  size  ; I think  I shall  make  it 
my  little  room.” 

Mr.  Brass  encouraging  this  idea,  as 
he  would  have  encouraged  any  other 
emanating  from  the  same  source,  the 
dwarf  walked  in  to  try  the  effect.  This 
he  did  by  throwing  himself  on  his 
back  upon  the  bed,  with  his  pipe  in  his 


mouth,  and  then  kicking  up  his  legs 
and  smoking  violently.  Mr.  Brass  ap- 
plauding this  picture  very  much,  and 
the  bed  being  soft  and  comfortable, 
Mr.  Quilp  determined  to  use  it,  both 
as  a sleeping-place  by  night  and  as  a 
kind  of  divan  by  day  ; and,  in  order 
that  it  might  be  converted  to  the  latter 
purpose  at  once,  remained  where  he 
was,  and  smoked  his  pipe  out.  The 
legal  gentleman,  being  by  this  time 
rather  giddy  and  perplexed  in  his  ideas 
(for  this  was  one  of  the  operations  of 
the  tobacco  on  his  nervous  system),  took 
the  opportunity  of  slinking  away  into 
the  open  air,  where,  in  course  of  time, 
he  recovered  sufficiently  to  return  with 
a countenance  of  tolerable  composure. 
He  was  soon  led  on  by  the  malicious 
dwarf  to  smoke  himself  into  a relapse, 
and  in  that  state  stumbled  upon  a set- 
tee, where  he  slept  till  morning. 

Such  were  Mr.  Quilp’s  first  proceed- 
ings on  entering  upon  his  new  property. 
He  was,  for  some  days,  restrained  by 
business  from  performing  any  particular 
pranks,  as  his  time  was  pretty  well  oc- 
cupied between  taking,  with  the  Assist- 
ance of  Mr.  Brass,  a minute  inventory 
of  all  the  goods  in  the  place,  and  go- 
ing abroad  upon  his  other  concerns, 
which  happily  engaged  him  for  several 
hours  at  a time.  His  avarice  and  cau- 
tion being  now  thoroughly  awakened, 
however,  he  was  never  absent  from  the 
house  one  night  ; and  his  eagerness  for 
some  termination,  good  or  bad,  to  the 
old  man’s  disorder,  increasing  rapidly 
as  the  time  passed  by,  soon  began  to 
vent  itself  in  open  murmurs  and  ex- 
clamations of  impatience. 

Nell  shrunk  timidly  from  all  the 
dwarf’s  advances  towards  conversation, 
and  fled  from  the  very  sound  of  his 
voice  ; nor  were  the  lawyer’s  smiles 
less  terrible  to  her  than  Quilp’s  gri- 
maces. She  lived  in  such  continual 
dread  and  apprehension  of  meeting  one 
or  other  of  them  on  the  stairs  or  in  the 
passages,  if  she  stirred  from  her  grand- 
father’s chamber,  that  she  seldom  left 
it,  for  a moment,  until  late  at  night, 
when  the  silence  encouraged  her  to  ven- 
ture forth  and  breathe  the  purer  air  of 
some  empty  room. 

One  night,  she  had  stolen  to  her 


6o 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


usual  window,  and  was  sitting  there 
very  sorrowfully,  — for  the  old  man  had 
been  worse  that  day, — when  she  thought 
she  heard  her  name  pronounced  by  a 
voice  in  the  street.  Looking  down,  she 
recognized  Kit,  whose  endeavors  to  at- 
tract her  attention  had  roused  her  from 
her  sad  reflections. 

“Miss  Nell ! ” said  the  boy,  in  a 
low  voice. 

“Yes,”  replied  the  child,  doubtful 
whether  she  ought  to  hold  any  commu- 
nication with  the  supposed  culprit,  but 
inclining  to  her  old  favorite  still ; “ what 
do  you  want?  ” 

“ I have  wanted  to  say  a word  to  you 
for  a long  time,”  the  boy  replied,  “but 
the  people  below  have  driven  me  away 
and  w'ould  n’t  let  me  see  you.  You 
don’t  believe  — I hope  you  don’t  really 
believe — that  I deserve  to  be  cast  off 
as  I have  been  ; do  you,  miss  ? ” 

“I  must  believe  it,”  returned  the 
child,  “or  why  would  grandfather  have 
been  so  angry  with  you  ? ” 

“ I don’t  know,”  replied  Kit.  “I ’m 
sure  I ’ve  never  deserved  it  from  him, 
no,  nor  from  you.  I can  say  that, 
with  a true  and  honest  heart,  any  way. 
And  then  to  be  driven  from  the  door, 
when  I only  came  to  ask  how  old  mas- 
ter was  ! ” 

“They  never  told  me  that,”  said  the 
child.  “ I did  n’t  know  it  indeed.  I 
wouldn’t  have  had  them  do  it  for  the 
world.” 

“ Thank ’ee,  miss,”  returned  Kit; 
“ it ’s  comfortable  to  hear  you  say  that. 

I said  I never  would  believe  that  it  was 
your  doing.” 

“That  was  right!”  said  the  child, 
eagerly. 

“ Miss  Nell,”  cried  the  boy,  coming 
under  the  window,  and  speaking  in  a 
lower  tone,  “there  are  new  masters 
down  stairs.  It ’s  a change  for  you.” 

“ It  is  indeed,”  replied  the  child. 

“And  so  it  will  be  for  him,  when  he 
gets  better,”  said  the  boy,  pointing  to- 
wards the  sick-room. 

“ — If  he  ever  does,”  added  the  child, 
unable  to  restrain  her  tears. 

“O,  he’ll  do  that,  he’ll  do  that,” 
said  Kit;  “I’m  sure  he  will.  You 
must  n’t  be  cast  down,  Miss  Nell.  Now, 
don’t  be,  pray  I ” 


These  words  of  encouragement  and 
consolation  were  few  and  roughly  said, 
but  they  affected  the  child  and  made 
her,  for  the  moment,  weep  the  more. 

“He’ll  be  sure  to  get  better  now,” 
said  the  boy,  anxiously,  “if  you  don’t 
give  way  to  low  spirits  and  turn  ill  your- 
self, which  would  make  him  worse  and 
throw  him  back,  just  as  he  was  recover- 
ing. When  he  does,  say  a good  word, 
say  a kind  word  for  me,  Miss  Nell  ! ” 

“ They  tell  me  I must  not  even  men- 
tion your  name  to  him  for  a long,  long 
time,”  rejoined  the  child.  “ I dare  not ; 
and  even  if  I might,  what  good  would  a 
kind  word  do  you,  Kit?  We  shall  be 
very  poor.  We  shall  scarcely  have 
bread  to  eat.” 

“ It ’s  not  that  I may  be  taken  back,” 
said  the  boy,  “ that  I ask  the  favor  of 
you.  It  is  n’t  for  the  sake  of  food  and 
wages  that  I ’ve  been  waiting  about,  so 
long,  in  hopes  to  see  you.  Don’t  think 
that  I ’d  come  in  a time  of  trouble  to 
talk  of  such  things  as  them.” 

The  child  looked  gratefully  and  kind- 
ly at  him,  but  waited  that  he  might 
speak  again. 

“ No,  it  ’snot  that,”  said  Kit,  hesitat- 
ing ; “it’s  something  very  different 
from  that.  I have  n’t  got  much  sense, 

I know,  but  if  he  could  be  brought  to 
believe  that  I ’d  been  a faithful  servant 
to  him,  doing  the  best  I could,  and 
never  meaning  harm,  perhaps  he 
might  n’t — ” 

Here  Kit  faltered  so  long  that  the 
child  entreated  him  to  speak  out,  and 
quickly,  for  it  was  very  late,  and  time 
to  shut  the  window. 

“ Perhaps  he  might  n’t  think  it  over 
venturesome  of  me  to  say,  — well,  then, 
to  say  this,”  cried  Kit  with  sudden 
boldness.  “ This  home  is  gone  from 
you  and  him.  Mother  and  I have  got 
a poor  one;  but  that’s  better  than  : 
this,  with  all  these  people  here  ; and 
why  not  come  there,  till  he ’s  had  time 
to  look  about,  and  find  a better?  ” 

The  child  did  not  speak.  Kit,  in  the 
relief  of  having  made  his  proposition, 
found  his  tongue  loosened,  and  spoke 
out  in  its  favor  with  his  utmost  elo- 
quence. 

“You  think,”  said  the  boy,  “that 
it’s  very  small  and  inconvenient.  So 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


61 


it  is,  but  it ’s  very  clean.  Perhaps  you 
think  it  would  be  noisy,  but  there ’s  not 
a quieter  court  than  ours  in  all  the  town. 
Don’t  be  afraid  of  the  children:  the 
baby  hardly  ever  cries,  and  the  other 
one  is  very  good  ; besides,  / ’d  mind 
’em.  They  wouldn’t  vex  you  much, 
I ’m  sure.  Do  try,  Miss  Nell,  do  try. 
The  little  front  room  up  stairs  is  very 
pleasant.  You  can  see  a piece  of  the 
church-clock,  through  the  chimneys, 
and  almost  tell  the  time.  Mother  says 
it  would  be  just  the  thing  for  you,  and 
so  it  would,  and  you  ’d  have  her  to  wait 
upon  you  both,  and  me  to  run  of  er- 
rands. We  don’t  mean  money,  bless 
you ; you  ’re  not  to  think  of  that  ! 
Will  you  try  him,  Miss  Nell?  Only 
say  you’ll  try  him.  Do  try  to  make  old 
master  come,  and  ask  him  first  what  l 
have  done,  — will  you  only  promise  that, 
Miss  Nell?” 

Before  the  child  could  reply  to  this 
earnest  solicitation,  the  street  door 
opened,  and  Mr.  Brass,  thrusting  out 
his  nightcapped  head,  called  in  a surly 
voice,  “Who’s  there?”  Kit  immedi- 
ately glided  away,  and  Nell,  closing 
the  window  softly,  drew  back  into  the 
room. 

Before  Mr.  Brass  had  repeated  his 
inquiry  many  times,  Mr.  Quilp,  also 
embellished  with  a nightcap,  emerged 
from  the  same  door,  and  looked  care- 
fully up  and  down  the  street,  and  up  at 
all  the  windows  of  the  house,  from  the 
opposite  side.  Finding  that  there  was 
nobody  in  sight,  he  presently  returned 
into  the  house  with  his  legal  friend, 
protesting  (as  the  child  heard  from  the 
staircase)  that  there  was  a league  and 
plot  against  him  ; that  he  was  in  danger 
of  being  robbed  and  plundered  by  a 
band  of  conspirators  who  prowled  about 
the  house  at  all  seasons ; and  that  he 
would  delay  no  longer,  but  take  imme- 
diate steps  for  disposing  of  the  property 
and  returning  to  his  own  peaceful  roof. 
Having  growled  forth  these  and  a great 
many  other  threats  of  the  same  nature, 
he  coiled  himself  once  more  in  the 
child’s  little  bed,  and  Nell  crept  softly 
up  the  stairs. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  her  short 
and  unfinished  dialogue  with  Kit  should 
leo.vc  a strong  impression  on  her  mind, 


and  influence  her  dreams  that  night  and 
her  recollections  for  a long,  long  time. 
Surrounded  by  unfeeling  creditors,  and 
mercenary  attendants  upon  the  sick,  and 
meeting,  in  the  height  of  her  anxiety  and 
sorrow,  with  little  regard  or  sympathy 
even  from  tj^ie  women  about  her,  it  is 
not  surprising  that  the  affectionate 
heart  of  the  child  should  have  been 
touched  to  the  quick  by  one  kind  and 
generous  spirit,  however  uncouth  the 
temple  in  which  it  dwelt.  Thank 
Heaven  that  the  temples  of  such  spirits 
are  not  made  with  hands,  and  that  they 
may  be  even  more  worthily  hung  with 
poor  patchwork  than  with  purple  and 
fine  linen  ! 


CHAPTER  XII. 

At  length  the  crisis  of  the  old  man’s 
disorder  was  past,  and  he  began  to 
mend.  By  very  slow  and  feeble  de- 
grees his  consciousness  came  back ; 
but  the  mind  was  weakened  and  its 
functions  were  impaired.  He  was  pa- 
tient and  quiet ; often  sat  brooding, 
but  not  despondently,  for  a long  space  ; 
was  easily  amused,  even  by  a sunbeam 
on  the  wall  or  ceiling ; made  no  com- 
plaint that  the  days  were  long,  or  the 
nights  tedious ; and  appeared,  indeed, 
to  have  lost  all  count  of  time  and  ev- 
ery sense  of  care  or  weariness.  He 
would  sit,  for  hours  together,  with 
Nell’s  small  hand  in  his,  playing  with 
the  fingers  and  stopping  sometimes  to 
smooth  her  hair  or  kiss  her  brow  ; and, 
when  he  saw  that  tears  were  glistening 
in  her  eyes,  would  look,  amazed,  about 
him  for  the  cause,  and  forget  his  won- 
der even  while  he  looked. 

The  child  and  he  rode  out, — tfte  old 
man  propped  up  with  pillows,  and  the 
child  beside  him.  They  were  hand  in 
hand  as  usual.  The  noise  and  motion 
in  the  streets  fatigued  his  brain  at  first, 
but  he  was  not  surprised,  or  curious,  or 
leased,  or  irritated.  He  was  asked  if 
e remembered  this  or  that.  “ O yes,” 
he  said,  “ quite  well ; why  not?  ” Some- 
times he  turned  his  head,  and  looked, 
with  earnest  gaze  and  outstretched  neck, 
after  some  stranger  in  the  crowd,  until 
he  disappeared  from  sight ; but  to  the 


6 2 


THE  GLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


question  why  he  did  this  he  answered 
not  a word. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  easy-chair  one 
day,  and  Nell  upon  a stool  beside  him, 
when  a man  outside  the  door  inquired 
if  he  might  enter.  “Yes,”  he  said  with- 
out emotion,  “it  was  Quiljp,  he  knew. 
Quiip  was  master  there.  Of  course  he 
might  come  in.”  And  so  he  did. 

“ I ’m  glad  to  see  you  well  again  at 
last,  neighbor,”  said  the  dwarf,  sitting 
down  opposite  to  him.  “You’re  quite 
strong  now?” 

“Yes,”  said  the  old  man,  feebly, — 
“yes.” 

“ I don’t  want  to  hurry  you,  you 
know,  neighbor,”  said  the  dwarf,  raising 
his  voice,  for  the  old  man’s  senses  were 
duller  than  they  had  been ; “ but  as 
soon  as  you  can  arrange  your  future 
proceedings,  the  better.” 

“Surely,”  said  the  old  man.  “The 
better  for  all  parties.” 

“ You  see,”  pursued  Quiip,  after  a 
short  pause,  “ the  goods  being  once 
removed,  this  house  would  be  uncom- 
fortable,— uninhabitable,  in  fact.” 

“You  say  true,”  returned  the  old 
man.  “Poor  Nell,  too, — what  would 
she  do?  ” 

“ Exactly,”  bawled  the  dwarf,  nodding 
his  head;  “that’s  very  well  observed. 
Then  will  vou  consider  about  it,  neigh- 
bor ? ” 

“ I will,  certainly,”  replied  the  old 
man.  “We  shall  not  stop  here.” 

“ So  I supposed,”  said  the  dwarf. 
“ I have  sold  the  things.  They  have 
not  yielded  quite  as  much  as  they  might 
have  done,  but  pretty  well,  — pretty 
well.  To-day ’s  Tuesday.  When  shall 
they  be  moved  ? There ’s  no  hurry  ; 
shall  we  say  this  afternoon  ? ” 

“ Say  Friday  morning,”  returned  the 
old  man. 

“ Very  good,”  said  the  dwarf.  “ So 
be  it,  — with  the  understanding  that  I 
can’t  go  beyond  that  day,  neighbor,  on 
any  account.” 

“ Good,”  returned  the  old  man.  “ I 
shall  remember  it.” 

Mr.  Quiip  seemed  rather  puzzled  by 
the  strange,  even  spiritless  way  in  which 
all  this  was  said  ; but  as  the  old  man 
nodded  his  head  and  repeated,  “ On  Fri- 
day morning.  I shall  remember  it,”  he 


had  no  excuse  for  dwelling  on  the  sub- 
ject any  further,  and  so  took  a friendly 
leave,  with  many  expressions  of  good- 
will and  many  compliments  to  his  friend 
on  his  looking  so  remarkably  well,  and 
went  below  stairs  to  report  progress  to 
Mr.  Brass. 

All  that  day,  and  all  the  next,  the  old 
man  remained  in  this  state.  He  wan- 
dered up  and  down  the  house  and  into 
and  out  of  the  various  rooms,  as  if  with 
some  vague  intent  of  bidding  them  adieu, 
but  he  referred  neither  by  direct  allu- 
sions nor  in  any  other  manner  to  the 
interview  of  the  morning  or  the  necessity 
of  finding  some  other  shelter.  An  in- 
distinct idea  he  had,  that  the  child  was 
desolate  and  in  want  of  help;  for  he 
often  drew  her  to  his  bosom  and  bade 
her  be  of  good  cheer,  saying  that  they 
would  not  desert  each  other ; but  he 
seemed  unable  to  contemplate  their  real 
position  more  distinctly,  and  was  still 
the  listless,  passionless  creature  that 
suffering  of  mind  and  body  had  left 
him. 

We  call  this  a state  of  childishness, 
but  it  is  the  same  poor  hollow  mockery 
of  it  that  death  is  of  sleep.  Where,  in 
the  dull  eyes  of  doting  men,  are  the 
laughing  light  and  life  of  childhood,  the 
gayety  that  has  known  no  check,  the 
frankness  that  has  felt  no  chill,  the  hope 
that  has  never  withered,  the  joys  that 
fade  in  blossoming  ? Where,  in  the 
sharp  lineaments  of  rigid  and  unsightly 
death,  is  the  calm  beauty  of  slumber, 
telling  of  rest  for  the  waking  hours  that 
are  past,  and  gentle  hopes  and  loves  for 
those  which  are  to  come?  Lay  death 
and  sleep  down,  side  by  side,  and  say 
w’ho  shall  find  the  two  akin.  Send  forth 
the  child  and  childish  man  together, 
and  blush  for  the  pride  that  libels  our 
own  old  happy  state,  and  gives  its  title 
to  an  ugly  and  distorted  image. 

Thursday  arrived,  and  there  was  no 
alteration  in  the  old  man.  But  a change 
came  upon  him  that  evening,  as  he  and 
the  child  sat  silently  together. 

In  a small  dull  yard  below  his  window 
there  was  a tree,  — green  and  flourishing 
enough,  for  such  a place,  — and  as  the 
air  stirred  among  its  leaves,  it  threw  a 
rippling  shadow  on  the  white  wall.  The 
old  man  sat  watching  the  shadows  as 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


63 


they  trembled  in  this  patch  of  light, 
until  the  sun  went  down ; and  when  it 
was  night,  and  the  moon  was  slowly 
rising,  he  still  sat  in  the  same  spot. 

To  one  who  had  been  tossing  on  a 
restless  bed  so  long,  even  these  few 
green  leaves  and  this  tranquil  light, 
although  it  languished  among  chimneys 
and  house-tops,  were  pleasant  things. 
They  suggested  quiet  places  afar  off, 
and  rest  and  peace. 

The  child  thought,  more  than  once, 
that  he  was  moved,  and  had  forborne 
to  speak.  But,  now,  he  shed  tears,  — 
tears  that  it  lightened  her  aching  heart 
to  see,  — and,  making  as  though  he 
would  fall  upon  his  knees,  besought  her 
to  forgive  him. 

“Forgive  you  — what?”  said  Nell, 
interposing  to  prevent  his  purpose. 
“ O grandfather,  what  should  I for- 
give ? ” 

“ All  that  is  past,  all  that  has  come 
upon  thee,  Nell,  all  that  was  done  in 
that  uneasy  dream,”  returned  the  old 
man. 

“ Do  not  talk  so,”  said  the  child. 
“ Pray  do  not.  Let  us  speak  of  some- 
thing else.” 

“ Yes,  yes,  we  will,”  he  rejoined. 
“ And  it  shall  be  of  what  we  talked  of 
long  ago  — many  months  — months  is 
it,  or  weeks,  or  days?  which  is  it, 
Nell  ? ” 

“ I do  not  understand  you,”  said  the 
child. 

“ It  has  come  back  upon  me  to-day  ; 
it  has  all  come  back  since  we  have  been 
sitting  here.  I bless  thee  for  it,  Nell  ! ” 

“For  what,  dear  grandfather  ? ” 

“For  what  you  said  when  we  were 
first  made  beggars,  Nell.  Let  us  speak 
softly.  Hush  ! for  if  they  knew  our 
purpose  down  stairs,  they  would  cry 
that  I was  mad  and  take  thee  from  me. 
We  will  not  stop  here  another  day. 
We  will  go  far  away  from  here.” 

“ Yes,  let  us  go,”  said  the  child,  ear- 
nestly. “ Let  us  begone  from  this 
place,  and  never  turn  back  or  think  of  it 
again.  Let  us  wander  barefoot  through 
the  world,  rather  than  linger  here.” 

“We  will,”  answered  the  old  man. 
“We  will  travel  afoot  through  the  fields 
and  woods,  and  by  the  side  of  rivers, 
and  trust  ourselves  to  God  in  the  places 


where  he  dwells.  It  is  far  better  to  lie 
down  at  night  beneath  an  open  sky  like 
that  yonder  — see  how  bright  it  is!  — 
than  to  rest  in  close  rooms  which  are 
always  full  of  care  and  weary  dreams. 
Thou  and  I together,  Nell,  may  be 
cheerful  and  happy  yet,  and  learn  to 
forget  this  time,  as  if  it  had  never 
been.” 

“We  will  be  happy,”  cried  the  child. 
“ We  never  can  be  here.” 

“No,  we  never  can  again  — never 
again  — that ’s  truly  said,”  rejoined  the 
old  man.  “ Let  us  steal  away  to-morrow 
morning,  — early  and  softly,  that  we  may 
not  be  seen  or  heard, — and  leave  no 
trace  or  track  for  them  to  follow  by. 
Poor  Nell  ! thy  cheek  is  pale,  and  thy 
eyes  are  heavy  with  watching  and  weep- 
ing— with  watching  and  weeping  for 
me  — I know  — for  me  ; but  thou  wilt 
be  well  again,  and  merry  too,  when  we 
are  far  away.  To-morrow  morning, 
dear,  we  ’ll  turn  our  faces  from  this 
scene  of  sorrow,  and  be  as  free  and 
happy  as  the  birds.” 

And  then  the  old  man  clasped  his 
hands  above  her  head,  and  said,  in  a 
few  broken  words,  that  from  that  time 
forth  they  would  wander  up  and  down 
together,  and  never  part  more  until 
Death  took  one  or  other  of  the  twain. 

The  child’s  heart  beat  high  with  hope 
and  confidence.  She  had  no  thought  of 
hunger,  or  cold,  or  thirst,  or  suffering. 
She  saw,  in  this,  but  a return  of  the 
simple  pleasures  they  had  once  enjoyed, 
a relief  from  the  gloomy  solitude  in 
which  she  had  lived,  an  escape  from  the 
heartless  people  by  whom  she  had  been 
surrounded  in  her  late  time  of  trial,  the 
restoration  of  the  old  man’s  health  and 
peace,  and  a life  of  tranquil  happiness. 
Sun  and  stream  and  meadow  and  sum- 
mer days  shone  brightly  in  her  view, 
and  there  was  no  dark  tint  in  - all  the 
sparkling  picture. 

The  old  man  had  slept  for  some 
hours  soundly  in  his  bed,  and  she  was 
yet  busily  engaged  in  preparing  for 
their  flight.  There  were  a few  articles 
of  clothing  for  herself  to  carry,  and  a 
few  for  him,  — old  garments,  such  as 
became  their  fallen  fortunes,  laid  out  to 
wear,  and  a staff  to  support  his  feeble 
steps,  put  ready  for  his  use.  But  this 


64 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


was  not  all  her  task  ; for  now  she  must 
visit  the  old  rooms  for  the  last  time. 

And  how  different  the  parting  with 
them  was  from  any  she  had  expected, 
and  most  of  all  from  that  which  she  had 
oftenest  pictured  to  herself ! How  could 
she  ever  have  thought  of  bidding  them 
farewell  in  triumph,  when  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  many  hours  she  had  passed 
among  them  rose  to  her  swelling  heart, 
and  made  her  feel  the  wish  a cruelty, 
— lonely  and  sad  though  many  of  those 
hours  had  been  ! She  sat  down  at  the 
window  where  she  had  spent  so  many 
evenings,  — darker  far  than  this,  — and 
every  thought  of  hope  or  cheerfulness 
that  had  occurred  to  her  in  that  place 
came  vividly  upon  her  mind,  and  blotted 
out  all  its  dull  and  mournful  associa- 
tions in  an  instant. 

Her  own  little  room,  too,  where  she 
had  so  often  knelt  down  and  prayed  at 
night,  — prayed  for  the  time  which  she 
hoped  was  dawning  now,  — the  little 
room  where  she  had  slept  so  peacefully, 
and  dreamed  such  pleasant  dreams  ; it 
was  hard  not  to  be  able  to  glance  round 
it  once  more,  and  to  be  forced  to  leave 
it  without  one  kind  look  or  grateful  tear. 
There  were  some  trifles  there  — poor, 
useless  things  — that  she  would  have 
liked  to  take  away  ; but  that  was  impos- 
sible. 

This  brought  to  her  mind  her  bird, 
her  poor  bird,  who  hung  there  yet. 
She  wept  bitterly  for  the  loss  of  this 
little  creatiire,  until  the  idea  occurred 
to  her  — she  did  not  know  how,  or  why, 
it  came  into  her  head  — that  it  might, 
by  some  means,  fall  into  the  hands  of 
Kit,  who  would  keep  it  for  her  sake,  and 
think,  perhaps,  that  she  had  left  it  be- 
hind in  the  hope  that  he  might  have  it, 
and  as  an  assurance  that  she  was  grate- 
ful to  him.  She  was  calmed  and  com- 
forted by  the  thought,  and  went  to  rest 
with  a lighter  heart. 

From  many  dreams  of  rambling 
through  light  and  sunny  places,  but 
with  some  vague  object  unattained  which 
ran  indistinctly  through  them  all,  she 
awoke  to  find  that  it  was  yet  night,  and 
that  the  stars  were  shining  brightly  in 
the  sky.  At  length  the  day  began  to 
glimmer,  and  the  stars  to  grow  pale  and 
dim.  As  soon  as  she  was  sure  of  this, 


she  arose  and  dressed  herself  for  the 
journey. 

The  old  man  was  yet  asleep,  and  as 
she  was  unwilling  to  disturb  him,  she 
left  him  to  slumber  on,  until  the  sun 
rose.  He  was  anxious  that  they  should 
leave  the  house  without  a minute’s  loss 
of  time,  and  was  soon  ready. 

The  child  then  took  him  by  the  hand, 
and  they  trod  lightly  and  cautiously 
down  the  stairs,  trembling  whenever  a 
board  creaked,  and  often  stopping  tc 
listen.  The  old  man  had  forgotten  a 
kind  of  wallet  which  contained  the  light 
burden  he  had  to  carry  ; and  the  going 
back  a few  steps  to  fetch  it  seemed  an 
interminable  delay. 

At  last  they  reached  the  passage  on 
the  ground-floor,  where  the  snoring  of 
Mr.  Quilp  and  his  legal  friend  sounded 
more  terrible  in  their  ears  than  the 
roars  of  lions.  The  bolts  of  the  door 
were  rusty  and  difficult  to  unfasten 
without  noise.  When  they  were  all 
drawn  back,  it  was  found  to  be  locked, 
and,  worst  of  all,  the  key  was  gone. 
Then  the  child  remembered,  for  the 
first  time,  one  of  the  nurses  having  told 
her  that  Quilp  always  locked  both  the 
house  doors  at  night,  and  kept  the  keys 
on  the  table  in  his  bedroom. 

It  was  not  without  great  fear  and  trepi- 
dation, that  little  Nell  slipped  off  her 
shoes,  and  gliding  through  the  store- 
room of  old  curiosities,  where  Mr. 
Brass  — the  ugliest  piece  of  goods  in  all 
the  stock  — lay  sleeping  on  a mattress, 
passed  into  her  own  little  chamber. 

Here  she  stood,  for  a few  moments, 
quite  transfixed  with  terror  at  the  sight  of 
Mr.  Quilp,  who  was  hanging  so  far  out  of 
bed  that  he  almost  seemed  to  be  stand- 
ing on  his  head,  and  who,  either  from 
the  uneasiness  of  this  posture,  or  in  one 
of  his  agreeable  habits,  was  gasping  and 
growling  with  his  mouth  wide  open,  and 
the  whites  (or  rather  the  dirty  yellows) 
of  his  eyes  distinctly  visible.  It  was 
no  time,  however,  to  ask  whether  any- 
thing ailed  him  ; so,  possessing  herself 
of  the  key,  after  one  hasty  glance  about 
the  room,  and  repassing  the  prostrate 
Mr.  Brass,  she  rejoined  the  old  man  in 
safety.  They  got  the  door  open  without 
noise,  and,  passing  into  the  street,  stoo4 
still. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


“ Which  way  ? ” said  the  child. 

The  old  man  looked,  irresolutely  and 
helplessty,  first  at  her,  then  to  the  right 
and  left,  then  at  her  again,  and  shook 
his  head.  It  was  plain  that  she  was 
thenceforth  his  guide  and  leader.  The 
child  felt  it,  but  had  no  doubts  or  mis- 
giving, and,  putting  her  hand  in  his,  led 
him  gently  away. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a day  in 
June,  the  deep  blue  sky  unsullied  by  a 
cloud,  and  teeming  with  brilliant  light. 
The  streets  were,  as  yet,  nearly  free 
from  passengers,  the  houses  and  shops 
were  closed,  and  the  healthy  air  of 
morning  fell  like  breath  from  angels  on 
the  sleeping  town. 

The  old  man  and  the  child  passed  on 
through  the  glad  silence,  elate  with 
hope  and  pleasure.  They  were  alone 
together,  once  again ; every  object  was 
bright  and  fresh ; nothing  reminded 
them,  otherwise  than  by  contrast,  of  the 
monotony  and  constraint  they  had  left 
behind ; church  towers  and  steeples, 
frowning  and  dark  at  other  times,  now 
shone  and  dazzled  in  the  sun  ; each 
humble  nook  and  corner  rejoiced  in 
light ; and  the  sky,  dimmed  only  by  ex- 
cessive distance,  shed  its  placid  smile 
on  everything  beneath. 

Forth  from  the  city,  while  it  yet  slum- 
bered, went  the  two  poor  adventurers, 
wandering  they  knew  not  whither. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Daniel  Quilp.  of  Tower  Hill,  and 
Sampson  Brass  of  Bevis  Marks  in  the 
city  of  London,  Gentleman,  one  of  her 
Majesty’s  attorneys  of  the  Courts  of 
King’s  Bench  and  Common  Pleas  at 
Westminster,  and  a solicitor  of  the 
High  Court  of  Chancery,  slumbered  on, 
unconscious  and  unsuspicious  of  any 
mischance,  until  a knocking  at  the  street 
door,  often  repeated  and  gradually 
mounting  up  from  a modest  single  rap 
to  a perfect  battery  of  knocks,  fired  in 
long  discharges  with  a very  short  inter- 
val between,  caused  the  said  Daniel 
Quilp  to  struggle  into  a horizontal  posi- 
tion, and  to  stare  at  the  ceiling  with  a 
drowsy  indifference,  betokening  that  he 

5 


heard  the  noise  and  rather  wondered  at 
the  same,  but  could  n’t  be  at  the  trouble 
of  bestowing  any  further  thought  upon 
the  subject. 

As  the  knocking,  however,  instead  of 
accommodating  itself  to  his  lazy  state, 
increased  in  vigor  and  became  more 
importunate,  as  if  in  earnest  remon- 
strance against  his  falling  asleep  again, 
now  that  he  had  once  opened  his  eyes, 
Daniel  Quilp  began  by  degrees  to  com- 
prehend the  possibility  of  there  being 
somebody  at  the  door ; and  thus  he 
gradually  came  to  recollect  that  it  was 
Friday  morning  and  he  had  ordered 
Mrs.  Quilp  to  be  in  waiting  upon  him  at 
an  early  hour. 

Mr.  Brass,  after  writhing  about,  in  a 
great  many  strange  attitudes,  and  often 
twisting  his  face  and  eyes  into  an  ex- 
pression like  that  which  is  usually  pro- 
duced by  eating  gooseberries  very  early 
in  the  season,  was  by  this  time  awake 
also.  Seeing  that  Mr.  Quilp  invested 
himself  in  his  every-day  garments,  he 
hastened  to  do  the  like,  putting  on  his 
shoes  before  his  stockings,  and  thrusting 
his  legs  into  his  coat-sleeves,  and  mak- 
ing such  other  small  mistakes  in  his 
toilet  as  are  not  uncommon  to  those 
who  dress  in  a hurry,  and  labor  under 
the  agitation  of  having  been  suddenly 
roused. 

While  the  attorney  was  thus  engaged, 
the  dwarf  was  groping  under  the  table, 
muttering  desperate  imprecations  on 
himself,  and  mankind  in  general,  and 
all  inanimate  objects  to  boot,  which 
suggested  to  Mr.  Brass  the  question, 
“What’s  the  matter?” 

.“The  key,”  said  the  dwarf,  looking 
viciously  at  him,  “ the  door-key,  — that ’s 
the  matter.  D’  ye  know  anything  of 
it?  ” 

“ How  should  I know  anything  of  it, 
sir?  ” returned  Mr.  Brass. 

“ How  should  you  ? ” repeated  Quilp, 
with  a sneer.  “You’re  a nice  lawyer, 
ain’t  you?  Ugh,  you  idiot ! ” 

Not  caring  to  represent  to  the  dwarf, 
in  his  present  humor,  that  the  loss  of  a 
key  by  another,  person  could  scarcely  be 
said  to  affect  his  (Brass’s)  legal  knowl- 
edge in  any  material  degree,  Mr.  Brass 
humbly  suggested  that  it  must  have 
been  forgotten  overnight,  and  was, 


66 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


doubtless,  at  that  moment  in  its  native 
keyhole.  Notwithstanding  that  Mr. 
Quilp  had  a strong  conviction  to  the 
contrary,  founded  on  his  recollection  of 
having  carefully  taken  it  out,  he  was 
fain  to  admit  that  this  was  possible,  and 
therefore  went  grumbling  to  the  door, 
where,  sure  enough,  he  found  it. 

Now,  just  as  Mr.  Quilp  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  lock,  and  saw  with  great  aston- 
ishment that  the  fastenings  were  undone, 
the  knocking  came  again  with  most 
irritating  violence,  and  the  daylight, 
which  had  been  shining  through  the 
keyhole,  was  intercepted  on  the  outside 
by  a human  eye.  The  dwarf  was  very 
much  exasperated,  and,  wanting  some- 
body to  wreak  his  ill-humor  upon,  de- 
termined to  dart  out  suddenly,  and  fa- 
vor Mrs.  Quilp  with  a gentle  acknowl- 
edgment of  her  attention  in  making  that 
hideous  uproar. 

With  this  view,  he  drew  back  the 
lock  very  silently  and  softly,  and,  open- 
ing the  door  all  at  once,  pounced  out 
upon  the  person  on  the  other  side, 
who  had  at  that  moment  raised  the 
knocker  for  another  application,  and  at 
whom  the  dwarf  ran  head  first,  throw- 
ing out  his  hands  and  feet  together, 
and  biting  the  air  in  the  fulness  of  his 
malice. 

So  far,  however,  from  rushing  upon 
somebody  who  offered  no  resistance  and 
implored  his  mercy,  Mr.  Quilp  was  no 
sooner  in  the  arms  of  the  individual 
whom  he  had  taken  for  his  wife  than  he 
found  himself  complimented  with  two 
staggering  blows  on  the  head,  and  two 
more,  of  the  same  quality,  in  the  chest ; 
and,  closing  with  his  assailant,  such  a 
shower  of  buffets  rained  down  upon  his 
person  as  sufficed  to  convince  him  that 
he  was  in  skilful  and  experienced  hands. 
Nothing  daunted  by  this  reception,  he 
clung  tight  to  his  opponent,  and  bit 
and  hammered  away  with  such  good- 
will and  heartiness  that  it  was  at  least 
a couple  of  minutes  before  he  was  dis- 
lodged. Then,  and  not  until  then, 
Daniel  Quilp  found  himself,  all  flushed 
and  dishevelled,  in  the  middle  of  the 
street,  with  Mr.  Richard  Swiveller  per- 
forming a kind  of  dance  round  him, 
and  requiring  to  know  “ whether  he 
wanted  any  more.” 


“There’s  plenty  more  of  it  at  the 
same  shop,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  by 
turns  advancing  and  retreating  in  a 
threatening  attitude,  — “a  large  and 
extensive  assortment  always  on  hand ; 
country  orders  executed  with  prompti- 
tude and  despatch.  Will  you  have  a 
little  more,  sir?  Don’t  say  no,  if  you ’d 
rather  not.” 

“ I thought  it  was  somebody  else,” 
said  Quilp,  rubbing  his  shoulders. 

“ Why  did  n’t  you  say  who  you  were?  ” 

“Why  did  n’t  you  say  whoj you  were  ?” 
returned  Dick,  “ instead  of  flying  out  of 
the  house  like  a Bedlamite  ? ” 

“It  was  you  that  — that  knocked,” 
said  the  dwarf,  getting  up  with  a short 
groan,  “was  it?” 

“Yes,  I am  the  man,”  replied  Dick. 

“ That  lady  had  begun  when  I came,  but 
she  knocked  too  soft,  so  I relieved  her.” 
As  he  said  this,  he  pointed  towards  Mrs. 
Quilp,  who  stood  trembling  at  a little  dis- 
tance. 

“ Humph  ! ” muttered  the  dwarf,  dart- 
ing an  angry  look  at  his  wife,  “ I thought 
it  was  your  fault ! And  you,  sir  — don’t 
you  know  there  has  been  somebody  ill 
here,  that  you  knock  as  if  you ’d  beat 
the  door  down  ? ” 

“ Damme  ! ” answered  Dick,  “ that ’s 
why  I did  it.  I thought  there  was  some- 
body dead  here.” 

“You  came  for  some  purpose,  I sup- 
pose,” said  Quilp.  “What  is  it  you 
want?” 

“ I want  to  know  how  the  old  gentle- 
man is,”  rejoined  Mr.  Swiveller,  “and 
to  hear  from  Nell  herself,  with  whom  I 
should  like  to  have  a little  talk.  1’ma 
friend  of  the  family,  sir ; at  least,  I ’m 
the  friend  of  one  of  the  family,  and  that ’s 
the  same  thing.” 

“ You ’d  better  walk  in  then,”  said  the  ; 
dwarf.  “ Go  on,  sir,  go  on.  Now,  Mrs. 
Quilp  — after  you,  ma’am.” 

Mrs.  Quilp  hesitated,  but  Mr.  Quilp 
insisted.  And  it  was  not  a contest  of 
politeness,  or  by  any  means  a matter  of 
form,  for  she  knew  very  well  that  her 
husband  wished  to  enter  the  house  in 
this  order,  that  he  might  have  a favor- 
able opportunity  of  inflicting  a few 
pinches  on  her  arms,  which  were  sel- 
dom free  from  impressions  of  his  fin- 
gers in  black  and  blue  colors.  Mr. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP.  67 


Swiveller,  who  was  not  in  the  secret, 
was  a little  surprised  to  hear  a sup- 
pressed scream,  and,  looking  round,  to 
see  Mrs.  Quilp  following  him  with  a 
sudden  jerk ; but  he  did  not  remark 
on  these  appearances,  and  soon  forgot 
them. 

“ Now,  Mrs.  Quilp,”  said  the  dwarf 
when  they  had  entered  the  shop,  “ go 
you  up  stairs,  if  you  please,  to  Nelly’s 
room,  and  tell  her  that  she ’s  wanted.” 

“ You  seem  to  make  yourself  at  home 
here,”  said  Dick,  who  was  unacquainted 
with  Mr.  Quilp’s  authority. 

“I  am  at  home,  young  gentleman,” 
returned  the  dwarf. 

Dick  was  pondering  what  these  words 
might  mean,  and  still  more  what  the  pres- 
ence of  Mr.  Brass  might  mean,  when 
Mrs.  Quilp  came  hurrying  down  stairs, 
declaring  that  the  rooms  above  were 
empty. 

“ Empty,  you  fool  ! ” said  the  dwarf. 

“I  give  you  my  word,  Quilp,”  an- 
swered his  trembling  wffe,  “ that  I 
have  been  into  every  room,  and  there ’s 
not  a soul  in  any  of  them.” 

“ And  that,”  said  Mr.  Brass,  clapping 
his  hands  once,  with  an  emphasis,  “ ex- 
plains the  mystery  of  the  key  ! ” 

Quilp  looked  frowningly  at  him,  and 
frowningly  at  his  wife,  and  frowningly 
at  Richard  Swiveller  ; but,  receiving  no 
enlightenment  from  any  of  them,  hur- 
ried up  stairs,  whence  he  soon  hurried 
down  again,  confirming  the  report 
which  had  been  already  made. 

“It ’s  a strange  way  of  going,”  he  said, 
glancing  at  Swiveller,  — “very  strange  not 
to  communicate  with  me  who  am  such  a 
close  and  intimate  friend  of  his  ! Ah  ! 
he  ’ll  write  to  me  no  doubt,  or  he  ’ll  bid 
N elly  write.  Y es,  yes,  that ’s  what  he  ’ll 
do.  Nelly’s  very  fond  of  me.  Pretty 
Nell!” 

Mr.  Swiveller  looked,  as  he  was,  all 
open-mouthed  astonishment.  Still  glan- 
cing furtively  at  him,  Quilp  turned  to 
Mr.  Brass  and  observed,  with  assumed 
carelessness,  that  this  need  not  inter- 
fere with  the  removal  of  the  goods. 

“ For,  indeed,”  he  added,  “ we  knew 
that  they ’d  go  away  to-day,  but  not  that 
they ’d  go  so  early  or  so  quietly.  But 
they  have  their  reasons,  they  have  their 
reasons.” 


“ Where  in  the  Devil’s  name  are  they 
gone?  ” said  the  wondering  Dick. 

Quilp  shook  his  head  and  pursed  up 
his  lips,  in  a manner  which  implied  that 
he  knew  very  well,  but  was  not  at  lib- 
erty to  say. 

“And  what,”  said  Dick,  looking  at 
the  confusion  about  him,  — “ what  do 
you  mean  by  moving  the  goods  ? ” 

“That  I have  bought  ’em,  sir,”  re- 
joined Quilp.  “Eh?  What  then?” 

“ Has  the  sly  old  fox  made  his  for- 
tune, then,  and  gone  to  live  in  a tranquil 
cot  in  a pleasant  spot,  with  a distant 
view  of  the  changing  sea?”  said  Dick, 
in  great  bewilderment. 

“ Keeping  his  place  of  retirement 
very  close,  that  he  may  not  be  visited 
too  often  by  affectionate  grandsons 
and  their  devoted  friends,  eh?”  added 
the  dwarf,  rubbing  his  hands  hard ; 
“/  say  nothing,  but  is  that  your  mean- 
ing?” 

Richard  Swiveller  was  utterly  aghast 
at  this  unexpected  alteration  of  circum- 
stances, which  threatened  the  complete 
overthrow  of  the  project  in  which  he 
bore  so  conspicuous  a part,  and  seemed 
to  nip  his  prospects  in  the  bud.  Hav- 
ing only  received  from  Frederick  Trent, 
late  on  the  previous  night,  information 
of  the  old  man’s  illness,  he  had  come 
upon  a visit  of  condolence  and  inquiry 
to  Nell,  prepared  with  the  first  instal- 
ment of  that  long  train  of  fascinations 
which  was  to  fire  her  heart  at  last.  And 
here,  when  he  had  been  thinking  of  all 
kinds  of  graceful  and  insinuating  ap- 
proaches, and  meditating  on  the  fear- 
ful retaliation  which  was  slowly  work- 
ing against  Sophy  Wackles,  — here 
were  Nell,  the  old  man,  and  all  the 
money  gone,  melted  away,  decamped 
he  knew  not  whither,  as  if  with  a fore- 
knowledge of  the  scheme,  and  a resolu- 
tion to  defeat  it  in  the  very  outset,  be- 
fore a step  was  taken. 

In  his  secret  heart,  Daniel  Quilp  was 
both  surprised  and  troubled  by  the 
flight  which  had  been  made.  It  had 
not  escaped  his  keen  eye  that  some  :n- 
dispensable  articles  of  clothing  wera 
gone  with  the  fugitives,  and,  knowing 
the  old  man’s  weak  state  of  mind,  he 
marvelled  what  that  course  of  pro- 
ceeding might  be  in  which  he  had  so 


68 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


readily  procured  the  concurrence  of  the 
child.  It  must  not  be  supposed  (or  it 
would  be  a gross  injustice  to  Mr. 
Quilp)  that  he  was  tortured  by  any 
disinterested  anxiety  on  behalf  of  ei- 
ther. His  uneasiness  arose  from  a 
misgiving  that  the  old  man  had  some 
secret  store  of  money  which  he  had  not 
suspected  ; and  the  bare  idea  of  its  es- 
caping his  clutches  overwhelmed  him 
with  mortification  and  self-reproach. 

In  this  frame  of  mind,  it  was  some 
consolation  to  him  to  find  that  Richard 
Swiveller  was,  for  different  reasons,  evi- 
dently irritated  and  disappointed  by 
the  same  cause.  It  was  plain,  thought 
the  dwarf,  that  he  had  come  there,  on 
behalf  of  his  friend,  to  cajole  or  fright- 
en the  old  man  out  of  some  small  frac- 
tion of  that  wealth  of  which  they  sup- 
posed him  to  have  an  abundance. 
Therefore,  it  was  a relief  to  vex  his 
heart  with  a picture  of  the  riches  the 
old  man  hoarded,  and  to  expatiate  on 
his  cunning  in  removing  himself  even 
beyond  the  reach  of  importunity. 

“Well,”  said  Dick,  with  a blank 
look,  “ I suppose  it ’s  of  no  use  my 
staying  here.” 

“Not  the  least  in  the  world,”  re- 
joined the  dwarf. 

“You’ll  mention  that  I called,  per- 
haps?” said  Dick. 

Mr.  Quilp  nodded,  and  said  he  cer- 
tainly would,  the  very  first  time  he  saw 
them. 

“And  say,”  added  Mr.  Swiveller, — 
“ say,  sir,  that  I was  wafted  here  upon 
the  pinions  of  concord  ; that  I came  to 
remove,  with  the  rake  of  friendship, 
the  seeds  of  mutual  wiolence  and  heart- 
burning, and  to  sow  in  their  place  the 
germs  of  social  harmony.  Will  you 
have  the  goodness  to  charge  yourself 
with  that  commission,  sir?” 

“ Certainly  ! ” rejoined  Quilp. 

“ Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  add  to 
it,  sir,”  said  Dick,  producing  a very 
small  limp  card,  “that  that  is  my  ad- 
dress, and  that  I am  to  be  found  at 
home  every  morning.  Two  distinct 
knocks,  sir,  will  produce  the  slavey  at 
any  time.  My  particular  friends,  sir, 
are  accustomed  to  sneeze  when  the  door 
is  opened,  to  give  her  to  understand 
that  they  are  my  friends  and  have  no 


interested  motives  in  asking  if  I ’m  at 
home.  I beg  your  pardon ; will  you 
allow  me  to  look  at  that  card  again  ? ” 

“ O,  by  all  means,”  rejoined  Quilp. 

“ By  a slight  and  not  unnatural  mis- 
take, sir,”  said  Dick,  substituting 
another  in  its  stead,  “ I had  handed 
you  the  pass-ticket  of  a select  convivial 
circle,  called  the  Glorious  Apollers,  of 
which  I have  the  honor  to  be  Perpet- 
ual Grand.  That  is  the  proper  docu- 
ment, sir.  Good  morning.” 

Quilp  bade  him  good  day.  The  per- 
petual Grand  Master  of  the  Glorious 
Apollers,  elevating  his  hat  in  honor  of 
Mrs.  Quilp,  dropped  it  carelessly  on 
the  side  of  his  head  again,  and  disap- 
peared with  a flourish. 

By  this  time  certain  vans  had  arrived 
for  the  conveyance  of  the  goods,  and 
divers  strong  men  in  caps  were  balan- 
cing chests  of  drawers  and  other  trifles  of 
that  nature  upon  their  heads,  and  per- 
forming muscular  feats  which  height- 
ened their  complexions  considerably. 
Not  to  be  behindhand  in  the  bustle, 
Mr.  Quilp  went  to  work  with  surprising 
vigor ; hustling  and  driving  the  peo- 
ple about,  like  an  evil  spirit ; setting 
Mrs.  Quilp  upon  all  kinds  of  arduous 
and  impracticable  tasks  ; carrying  great 
weights  up  and  down,  with  no  apparent 
effort ; kicking  the  boy  from  the  wharf, 
whenever  he  could  get  near  him  ; and 
inflicting,  with  his  loads,  a great  many 
sly  bumps  and  blows  on  the  shoulders 
of  Mr.  Brass,  as  he  stood  upon  the 
door-steps  to  answer  all  the  inquiries  of 
curious  neighbors ; which  was  his  de- 
partment. His  presence  and  example 
diffused  such  alacrity  among  the  per- 
sons employed,  that,  in  a few  hours,  the 
house  was  emptied  of  everything  but 
pieces  of  matting,  empty  porter-pots, 
and  scattered  fragments  of  straw. 

Seated,  like  an  African  chief,  on  one 
of  these  pieces  of  matting,  the  dwarf 
was  regaling  himself  in  the  parlor  with 
bread  and  cheese  and  beer,  when  he 
observed,  without  appearing  to  do  so, 
that  a boy  was  prying  in  at  the  outer 
door.  Assured  that  it  was  Kit,  though 
he  saw  little  more  than  his  nose,  Mr. 
Quilp  hailed  him  by  his  name  ; where- 
upon Kit  came  in  and  demanded  what 
he  wanted. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP.  69 


“ Come  herej  you  sir,”  said  the  dwarf. 
**  Well,  so  your  old  master  and  young 
mistress  have  gone?” 

“Where?”  rejoined  Kit,  looking 
round. 

“ Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don’t  know 
where?  ” answered  Quilp,  sharply. 
“Where  have  they  gone,  eh?” 

“ I don’t  know,”  said  Kit. 

“ Come,”  retorted  Quilp,  “ let ’s  have 
no  more  of  this  ! Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  you  don’t  know  they  went  away 
by  stealth,  as  soon  as  it  was  light  this 
morning?  ” 

“No,”  said  the  boy,  in  evident  sur- 
prise. 

“You  don’t  know  that?”  cried  Quilp. 
“ Don’t  I know  that  you  were  hanging 
about  the  house  the  other  night,  like  a 
thief,  eh  ? Were  n’t  you  told  then  ? ” 

“ No,”  replied  the  boy. 

“You  were  not?”'  said  Quilp. 
“What  were  you  told  then?  What 
were  you  talking  about  ? ” 

Kit,  who  knew  no  particular  reason 
why  he  should  keep  the  matter  secret 
now,  related  the  purpose  for  which  he 
had  come  on  that  occasion,  and  the 
proposal  he  had  made. 

“ Oh  ! ” said  the  dwarf,  after  a little 
consideration.  “ Then  I think  they  ’ll 
come  to  you  yet.” 

“Do  you  think  they  will?  ” cried  Kit, 
eagerly. 

“Ay,  I think  they  will,”  returned  the 
dwarf.  “ Now,  when  they  do,  let  me 
know  ; d’  ye  hear?  Let  me  know,  and 
I ’ll  give  you  something.  I want  to  do 
’em  a kindness,  and  I can’t  do  ’em  a 
kindness  unless  I know  where  they  are. 
You  hear  what  I say  ? ” 

Kit  might  have  returned  some  answer 
which  would  not.  have  been  agreeable 
to  his  irascible  questioner,  if  the  boy 
from  the  wharf,  who  had  been  skulking 
about  the  room  in  search  of  anything 
that  might  have  been  left  about  by  acci- 
dent, had  not  happened  to  cry,  “ Here ’s 
a bird  ! What ’s  to  be  done  with 
this?”  . 

“ Wring  its  neck,”  rejoined  Quilp. 

“ O no,  don’t  do  that,”  said  Kit, 
stepping  forward.  “Give  it  to  me.” 

“ O yes,  I dare  say,”  cried  the  other 
boy.  “ Come  ! You  let  the  cage  alone, 
and  let  me  wring  its  neck,  will  you  ? He 


said  I was  to  do  it.  You  let  the  cage 
alone,  will  you  ? ” 

“ Give  it  here,  give  it  to  me,  you 
dogs,”  roared  Quilp.  “ Fight  for  it, 
you  dogs,  or  I ’ll  wring  its  neck  my- 
self ! ” 

Without  further  persuasion,  the  two 
boys  fell  upon  each  other,  tooth  and 
nail,  while  Quilp,  holding  up  the  cage 
in  one  hand,  and  chopping  the  ground 
with  his  knife  in  an  ecstasy,  urged  them 
on  by  his  taunts  and  cries  to  fight  more 
fiercely.  They  were  a pretty  equal 
match,  and  rolled  about  together,  ex- 
changing blows  which  were  by  no  means 
child’s  play,  until  at  length  Kit,  plant- 
ing a well-directed  hit  in  his  adversary’s 
chest,  disengaged  himself,  sprung  nim- 
bly up,  and,  snatching  the  cage  from 
Quilp’s  hands,  made  off  with  his  prize. 

He  did  not  stop  once  until  he  reached 
home,  where  his  bleeding  face  occa- 
sioned great  consternation,  and  caused 
the  elder  child  to  howl  dreadfully. 

“Goodness  gracious,  Kit ! what  is  the 
matter?  what  have  you  been  doing?” 
cried  Mrs.  Nubbles. 

“ Never  you  mind,  mother,”  answered 
her  son,  wiping  his  face  on  the  jack- 
towel  behind  the  door.  “I’m  not  hurt, 
don’t  you  be  afraid  for  me.  I ’ve  been 
a fightin’  for  a bird,  and  won  him,  — 
that ’sail.  Hold  your  noise,  little  Jacob. 
I never  see  such  a naughty  boy  in  all  my 
days  ! ” 

“You  have  been  a fighting  for  a 
bird  ! ” exclaimed  his  mother. 

“ Ah  ! fightin’  for.  a bird  ! ” replied 
Kit,  “ and  here  he  is,  — Miss  Nelly’s 
bird,  mother,  that  they  was  a goin’ 
to  wring  the  neck  of!  I stopped  that, 
though, — ha,  ha,  ha!  They  wouldn’t 
wTing  his  neck  and  me  by,  — no,  no. 
It  wouldn’t  do,  mother,  it  wouldn’t 
do  at  all  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ” 

Kit,  laughing  , so  heartily,  with  his 
swollen  and  bruised  face  looking  out  of 
the  towel,  made  little  Jacob  laugh,  and 
then  his  mother  laughed,  and  then  the 
baby  crowed  and  kicked  with  great 
glee,  and  then  they  all  laughed  in  con- 
cert, — partly  because  of  Kit’s  triumph, 
and  partly  because  they  were  very  fond 
of  each  other.  When  this  fit  was  over, 
Kit  exhibited  the  bird  to  both  children, 
as  a great  and  precious  rarity,  — it  was 


7o 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


only  a poor  linnet,  — and,  looking  about 
the  wall  for  an  old  nail,  made  a scaffold- 
ing of  a chair  and  table,  and  twisted  it 
out  with  great  exultation. 

“ Let  me  see,”  said  the  boy ; “ I think 
I ’ll  hang  him  in  the  winder,  because 
it ’s  more  light  and  cheerful,  and  he  can 
see  the  sky  there,  if  he  looks  up  very 
much.  He ’s  such  a one  to  sing,  I can 
tell  you  ! ” 

So  the  scaffolding  was  made  again, 
and  Kit,  climbing  up  with  the  poker 
for  a hammer,  knocked  in  the  nail  and 
hung  up  the  cage,  to  the  immeasurable 
delight  of  the  whole  family.  When  it 
had  been  adjusted  and  straightened  a 
great  many  times,  and  he  had  walked 
backwards  into  the  fireplace  in  his 
admiration  of  it,  the  arrangement  was 
pronounced  to  be  perfect. 

“And  now,  mother,”  said  the  boy, 
“ before  I rest  any  more,  I ’ll  go  out 
and  see  if  I can  find  a horse  to  hold, 
and  then  I can  buy  some  bird-seed,  and 
a bit  of  something  nice  for  you,  into  the 
bargain.” 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

As  it  was  very  easy  for  Kit  to  per- 
suade himself  that  the  old  house  was 
in  his  way,  his  way  being  anywhere,  he 
tried  to  look  upon  his  passing  it  once 
more  as  a matter  of  imperative  and 
disagreeable  necessity,  quite  apart  from 
any  desire  of  his  own,  to  which  he  could 
not  choose  but  yield.  It  is  not  uncom- 
mon for  people  who  are  much  better  fed 
and  taught  than  Christopher  Nubbles 
had  ever  been  to  make  duties  of  their 
inclinations  in  matters  of  more  doubtful 
propriety,  and  to  take  great  credit  for 
the  self-denial  with  which  they  gratify 
themselves. 

There  was  no  need  of  any  caution 
this  time,  and  no  fear  of  being  detained 
by  having  to  play  out  a return  match 
with  Daniel  Quilp’s  boy.  The  place 
was  entirely  deserted,  and  looked  as 
dusty  and  dingy  as  if  it  had  been  so  for 
months.  A rusty  padlock  was  fastened 
on  the  door,  ends  of  discolored  blinds 
and  curtains  flapped  drearily  against  the 
half-opened  upper  windows,  and  the 
crooked  holes  cut  in  the  closed  shutters 


below  were  black  with  the  darkness  of 
the  inside.  Some  of  the  glass  in  the 
window  he  had  so  often  watched  had 
been  broken  in  the  rough  hurry  of  the 
morning,  and  that  room  looked  more 
deserted  and  dull  than  any.  A group 
of  idle  urchins  had  taken  possession  of 
the  door-steps.  Some  were  plying  the 
knocker  and  listening  with  delighted 
dread  to  the  hollow  sounds  it  spread 
through  the  dismantled  house  ; others 
were  clustered  about  the  keyhole,  watch- 
ing half  in  jest  and  half  in  earnest  for 
“the  ghost,”  which  an  hour’s  gloom, 
added  to  the  mystery  that  hung  about 
the  late  inhabitants,  had  already  raised. 
Standing  all  alone  in  the  midst  of  the 
bu  iness  and  bustle  of  the  street,  the 
house  looked  a picture  of  cold  desola- 
tion ; and  Kit,  who  remembered  the 
cheerful  fire  that  used  to  burn  there  on 
a winter’s  night  and  the  no  less  cheerful 
laugh  that  made  the  small  room  ring, 
turned  quite  mournfully  away. 

It  must  be  especially  observed,  in 
justice  to  poor  Kit,  that  he  was  by  no 
means  of  a sentimental  turn,  and  per- 
haps had  never  heard  that  adjective  in 
all  his  life.  He  was  only  a soft-hearted, 
grateful  fellow,  and  had  nothing  genteel 
or  polite  about  him ; consequently,  in- 
stead of  going  home  again,  in  his  grief, 
to  kick  the  children  and  abuse  his 
mother  (for  when  your  finely  strung 
people  are  out  of  sorts  they  must  have 
everybody  else  unhappy  likewise),  he 
turned  his  thoughts  to  the  vulgar  expe- 
dient of  making  them  more  comfortable 
if  he  could. 

Bless  us,  what  a number  of  gentle- 
men on  horseback  there  were,  riding  up 
and  down,  and  how  few  of  them  wanted 
their  horses  held  ! A good  city  specu- 
lator or  a parliamentary  commissioner 
could  have  told  to  a fraction,  from 
the  crowds  that  were  cantering  about, 
what  sum  of  money  was  realized  in 
London,  in  the  course  of  a year,  by 
holding  horses  alone.  And  undoubt- 
edly it  would  have  been  a very  large 
one,  if  only  a twentieth  part  of  the  gen- 
tlemen without  grooms  had  had.  occa- 
sion to  alight ; but  they  had  not,  and  it 
is  often  an  ill-natured  circumstance,  like 
this,  which  spoils  the  most  ingenious 
estimate  in  the  world. 


me  library 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  6 F ILLINOIS 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


7* 


Kit  walked  about,  now  with  quick 
steps,  and  now  with  slow ; now  linger- 
ing as  some  rider  slackened  his  horse’s 
pace  and  looked  about  him  ; and  now 
darting  at  full  speed  up  a by-street  as 
he  caught  a glimpse  of  some  distant 
horseman  going  lazily  up  the  shady 
side  of  the  road,  and  promising  to  stop 
at  every  door.  But  on  they  all  went, 
one  after  another,  and  there  was  not  a 
penny  stirring.  “I  wonder,”  thought 
the  boy,  “ if  one  of  these  gentlemen 
knew  there  was  nothing  in  the  cup- 
board at  home,  whether  he ’d  stop  on 
purpose,  and  make  believe  that  he 
wanted  to  call  somewhere,  that  I might 
earn  a trifle?” 

He  was  quite  tired  out  with  pacing 
the  streets,  to  say  nothing  of  repeated 
disappointments,  and  was  sitting  down 
upon  a step  to  rest,  when  there  ap- 
proached towards  him  a little  clatter- 
ing, jingling  four-wheeled  chaise,  drawn 
by  a little  obstinate-looking  rough-coat- 
ed pony,  and  driven  by  a little  fat, 
placid-faced  old  gentleman.  Beside  the 
little  old  gentleman  sat  a little  old  lady, 
plump  and  placid  like  himself ; and  the 
pohy  was  coming  along  at  his  own  pace 
and  doing  exactly  as  he  pleased  with 
the  whole  concern.  If  the  old  gentle- 
man remonstrated  by  shaking  the  reins, 
the  pony  replied  by  shaking  his  head. 
It  was  plain  that  the  utmost  the  pony 
would  consent  to  do,  was  to  go  in  his 
own  way  up  any  street  that  the  old  gen- 
tleman particularly  wished  to  traverse  ; 
but  that  it  was  an  understanding  between 
them  that  he  must  do  this  after  his  own 
fashion  or  not  at  all. 

As  they  passed  where  he  sat.  Kit 
looked  so  wistfully  at  the  little  turnout 
that  the  old  gentleman  looked  at  him. 
Kit  rising  and  putting  his  hand  to  his 
hat,  the  old  gentleman  intimated  to  the 
pony  that  he  wished  to  stop,  to  which 
proposal  the  pony  (who  seldom  object- 
ed to  that  part  of  his  duty)  graciously 
acceded. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  said  Kit. 
“ I ’m  sorry  you  stopped,  sir.  I only 
meant  did  you  want  your  horse  minded.” 

“ I ’m  going  to  get  down  in  the  next 
street,”  returned  the  old  gentleman. 
“ If  you  like  to  come  on  after  us,  you 
may  have  the  job.” 


Kit  thanked  him,  and  joyfully  obeyed. 
The  pony  ran  off  at  a sharp  angle  to  in- 
spect a lamp-post  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  way,  and  then  went  off  at  a tan- 
gent to  another  lamp-post  on  the  other 
side.  Having  satisfied  himself  that 
they  were  of  the  same  pattern  and 
materials,  he  came  to  a stop,  apparent- 
ly absorbed  in  meditation. 

“Will  you  go  on,  sir,”  said  the  old 
gentleman,  gravely,  “ or  are  we  to 
wait  here  for  you  till  it’s  too  late  for 
our  appointment?  ” 

The  pony  remained  immovable. 

“O  you  naughty  Whisker,”  said  the 
old  lady.  “ Fie  upon  you  ! I am 
ashamed  of  such  conduct.” 

The  pony  appeared  to  be  touched  by 
this  appeal  to  his  feelings,  for  he  trotted 
on  directly,  though  in  a sulky  manner, 
and  stopped  no  more  until  he  came 
to  a door  whereon  was  a brass  plate 
with  the  words  “ Witherden  — Notary.” 
Here  the  old  gentleman  got  out  and 
helped  out  the  old  lady,  and  then  took 
from  under  the  seat  a nosegay  resem- 
bling in  shape  and  dimensions  a full- 
sized  warming-pan  with  the  handle  cut 
short  off.  This  the  old  lady  carried 
into  the  house  with  a staid  and  state- 
ly air,  and  the  old  gentleman  (who  had 
a club-foot)  followed  close  upon  her. 

They  went,  as  it  was  easy  to  tell  from 
the  sound  of  their  voices,  into  the  front 
parlor,  which  seemed  to  be  a kind  of 
office.  The  day  being  very  warm  and 
the  street  a quiet  one,  the  windows 
were  wide  open,  and  it  was  easy  to  hear 
through  the  Venetian  blinds  all  that 
passed  inside. 

At  first  there  was  a great  shaking  of 
hands  and  shuffling  of  feet,  succeeded 
by  the  presentation  of  the  nosegay  ; for 
a voice,  supposed  by  the  listener  to  be 
that  of  Mr.  Witherden  the  notary,  was 
heard  to  exclaim  a great  many  times, 
“O,  delicious!”  “O,  fragrant  in- 
deed ! ” and  a nose,  also  supposed  to 
be  the  property  of  that  gentleman,  was 
heard  to  inhale  the  scent  with  a snuffle 
of  exceeding  pleasure. 

“I  brought  it  in  honor  of  the  occa- 
sion, sir,”  said  the  old  lady. 

“Ah!  an  occasion  indeed,  ma’am; 
an  occasion  which  does  honor  to  me, 

1 ma’am,  honor  to  me,”  rejoined  Mr. 


72 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


Witherden,  the  notary.  “I  have  had 
many  a gentleman  articled  to  me, 
ma’am,  many  a one.  Some  of  them  are 
now  rolling  in  riches,  unmindful  of  their 
old  companion  and  friend,  ma’am  ; oth- 
ers are  in  the  habit  of  calling  upon 
me  to  this  day  and  saying,  ‘ Mr.  Wither- 
den, some  of  the  pleasantest  hours  I 
ever  spent  in  my  life  were  spent  in  this 
office,  — were  spent,  sir,  upon  this  very 
stool  ’ ; but  there  was  never  one  among 
the  number,  ma’am,  attached  as  I have 
been  to  many  of  them,  of  whom  I au- 
gured such  bright  things  as  I do  of  your 
only  son.” 

* “ O dear  ! ” said  the  old  lady.  “ How 
happy  you  do  make  us  when  you  tell  us 
that,  to  be  sure  ! ” 

“ I tell  you,  ma’am,”  said  Mr.  With- 
erden, “what  I think  as  an  honest  man, 
which,  as  the  poet  observes,  is  the  no- 
blest work  of  God.  I agree  with  the 
poet  in  every  particular,  ma’am.  The 
mountainous  Alps  on  the  one  hand, 
or  a humming-bird  on  the  other,  is 
nothing,  in  point  of  workmanship, 
to  an  honest  man  — or  woman  — or 
woman.” 

“ Anything  that  Mr.  Witherden  can 
say  of  me,”  observed  a small,  quiet 
voice,  “ I can  say,  with  interest,  of  him, 

I am  sure.” 

“ It ’s  a happy  circumstance,  a truly 
happy  circumstance,”  said  the  notary, 

“ to  happen  too  upon  his  eight-and- 
twentieth  birthday,  and  I hope  I know 
how  to  appreciate  it.  I trust,  Mr.  Gar- 
land, my  dear  sir,  that  we  may  mutually 
congratulate  each  other  upon  this  au- 
spicious occasion.” 

To  this  the  old  gentleman  replied 
that  he  felt  assured  they  might.  There 
appeared  to  be  another  shaking  of  hands 
in  consequence,  and  when  it  was  over 
the  old  gentleman  said,  that,  though  he 
said  it  who  should  not,  he  believed  no 
son  had  ever  been  a greater  comfort  to 
his  parents  than  Abel  Garland  had  been 
to  his. 

“ Marrying  as  his  mother  and  I did, 
late  in  life,  sir,  after  waiting  for  a great 
many  years,  until  we  were  well  enough 
off,  — coming  together  when  we  were 
no  longer  young,  and  then  being  blessed 
with  one  child  who  has  always  been 
dutiful  and  affectionate,  — why,  it ’s  a I 


source  of  great  happiness  to  us  both, 
sir.” 

“Of  course  it  is ; I have  no  doubt  of 
it,”  returned  the  notary,  in  a sympa- 
thizing voice.  “ It ’s  the  contempla- 
tion of  this  sort  of  thing  that  makes 
me  deplore  my  fate  in  being  a bachelor. 
There  was  a young  lady  once,  sir,  the 
daughter  of  an  outfitting  warehouse  of 
the  first  respectability  — but  that ’s  a 
weakness.  Chuckster,  bring  in  Mr. 
Abel’s  articles.” 

“You  see,  Mr.  Witherden,”  said  the 
old  lady,  “ that  Abel  has  not  been 
brought  up  like  the  run  of  young  men. 
He  has  always  had  a pleasure  in 
our  society,  and  always  been  with  us. 
Abel  has  never  been  absent  from  us  for 
a day  ; has  he,  my  dear  ? ” 

“ Never,  my  dear,”  returned  the  old 
gentleman,  “except  when  he  went  to 
Margate  one  Saturday  with  Mr.  Tom- 
kinley,  that  had  been  a teacher  at  that 
school  he  went  to,  and  came  back  upon 
the  Monday  ; but  he  was  very  ill  after 
that,  you  remember,  my  dear ; it  was 
quite  a dissipation.” 

“ He  was  not  used  to  it,  you  know,” 
said  the  old  lady ; “ and  he  could  n’t 
bear  it,  that ’s  the  truth.  Besides,  he 
had  no  comfort  in  being  there  without 
us,  and  had  nobody  to  talk  to  or  enjoy 
himself  with.” 

“That  was  it,  you  know,”  interposed 
the  same  small,  quiet  voice  that  had 
spoken  once  before.  “ I was  quite 
abroad,  mother,  quite  desolate,  and  to 
think  that  the  sea  was  between  us,  — 
O,  I never  shall  forget  what  I felt  when 
I first  thought  that  the  sea  was  between 
us  ! ” 

“ Very  natural  under  the  circumstan- 
ces,” observed  the  notary.  “ Mr. 
Abel’s  feelings  did  credit  to  his  na- 
ture, and  credit  to  your  nature,  ma’am, 
and  his  father’s  nature,  and  human 
nature.  I trace  the  same  current  now, 
flowing  through  all  his  quiet  and  un- 
obtrusive proceedings.  I am  about  to 
sign  my  name,  you  observe,  at  the 
foot  of  the  articles  which  Mr.  Chuck- 
ster will  witness ; and,  placing  my 
finger  upon  this  blue  wafer  with  the 
vandyked  corners,  I am  constrained  to 
remark  in  a distinct  tone  of  voice  — 
don’t  be  alarmed,  ma’am,  it  is  merely  a 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


73 


form  of  law  — that  I deliver  this  as  my 
act  and  deed.  Mr.  Abel  will  place  his 
name  against  the  other  wafer,  repeating 
the  same  cabalistic  words,  and  the  busi- 
ness is  over.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! You  see 
how  easily  these  things  are  done  ! ” 

There  was  a short  silence,  apparent- 
ly, while  Mr.  Abel  went  through  the 
prescribed  form,  and  then  the  shaking 
of  hands  and  shuffling  of  feet  were  re- 
newed, and  shortly  afterwards  there  was 
a clinking  of  wineglasses  and  a great 
talkativeness  on  the  part  of  everybody. 
In  about  a quarter  of  an  hour  Mr. 
Chuckster  (with  a pen  behind  his  ear 
and  his  Face  inflamed  with  wine)  ap- 
peared at  the  door,  and,  condescending 
to  address  Kit  by  the  jocose  appellation 
of  “ Young  Snob,”  informed  him  that 
the  visitors  were  coming  out. 

Out  they  came  forthwith,  — Mr.  With- 
erden,  who  was  short,  chubby,  fresh- 
colored,  brisk,  and  pompous,  leading 
the  old  lady  with  extreme  politeness, 
and  the  father  and  son  following  them, 
arm-in-arm.  Mr.  Abel,  who  had  a 
quaint,  old-fashioned  air  about  him, 
looked  nearly  of  the  same  age  as  his 
father,  and  bore  a wonderful  resem- 
blance to  him  in  face  and  figure,  though 
wanting  something  of  his  full,  round 
cheerfulness,  and  substituting  in  its 
place  a timid  reserve.  In  all  other  re- 
spects, in  the  neatness  of  the  dress,  and 
even  in  the  club-foot,  he  and  the  old 
gentleman  were  precisely  alike. 

Having  seen  the  old  lady  safely  in 
her  seat,  and  assisted  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  her  cloak  and  a small  basket 
which  formed  an  indispensable  portion 
of  her  equipage,  Mr.  Abel  got  into  a 
little  box  behind,  which  had  evidently 
been  made  for  his  express  accommoda- 
tion, and  smiled  at  everybody  present 
by  turns,  beginning  with  his  mother  and 
ending  with  the  pony.  There  was  then 
a great  to-do  to  make  the  pony  hold  up 
his  head,  that  the  bearing-rein  might  be 
fastened.  At  last  even  this  was  effected  ; 
and  the  old  gentleman,  taking  his  seat 
and  the  reins,  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
to  find  a sixpence  for  Kit. 

He  had  no  sixpences,  neither  had  the 
old  lady,  nor  Mr.  Abel,  nor  the  notary, 
nor  Mr.  Chuckster.  The  old  gentle- 
man thought  a shilling  too  much,  but 


there  was  no  shop  in  the  street  to  get 
change  at,  so  he  gave  it  to  the  boy. 

“ There,”  he.  said,  jokingly,  “ I ’m 
coming  here  again  next  Monday  at  the 
same  time,  and  mind  you  ’re  here,  my 
lad,  to  work  it  out.” 

“Thank  you,  sir,”  said  Kit.  “I’ll 
be  sure  to  be  here.” 

He  was  quite  serious,  but  they  all 
laughed  heartily  at  his  saying  so,  es- 
pecially Mr.  Chuckster,  who  roared  out- 
right and  appeared  to  relish  the  joke 
amazingly.  As  the  pony,  with  a pre- 
sentiment that  he  was  going  home,  or  a 
determination  that  he  would  not  go  any- 
where else  (which  was  the  same  thing), 
trotted  away  pretty  nimbly,  Kit  had  no 
time  to  justify  himself,  and  went  his 
way  also.  Having  expended  his  treas  - 
ure  in  such  purchases  as  he  knew  would 
be  most  acceptable  at  home,  not  for- 
getting some  seed  for  the  wonderful 
bird,  he  hastened  back  as  fast  as  he 
could,  so  elated  with  his  success  and 
great  good-fortune,  that  he  more  than 
half  expected  Nell  and  the  old  mail 
would  have  arrived  before  him. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Often,  while  they  were  yet  pacing 
the  silent  streets  of  the  town  on  the 
morning  of  their  departure,  the  child 
trembled  with  a mingled  sensation  of 
hope  and  fear,  as,  in  some  far-off  figure 
imperfectly  seen  in  the  clear  distance, 
her  fancy  traced  a likeness  to  honest 
Kit.  But  although  she  would  gladly 
have  given  him  her  hand  and  thanked 
him  for  what  he  had  said  at  their  last 
meeting,  it  was  always  a relief  to  find, 
when  they  came  nearer  to  each  other, 
that  the  person  who  approached  was 
not  he,  but  a stranger  ; for  even  if  she 
had  not  dreaded  the  effect  which  the 
sight  of  him  might  have  wrought  upon 
her  fellow-traveller,  she  felt  that  to  bid 
farewrell  to  anybody  now,  and  most  of 
all  to  him  who  had  been  so  faithful  and 
so  true,  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 
It  was  enough  to  leave  dumb  things  be- 
hind, and  objects  that  were  insensible 
both  to  her  love  and  sorrow.  To  have 
parted  from  her  only  other  friend,  upon 


74 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


the  threshold  of  that  wild  journey,  would 
have  wrung  her  heart  indeed. 

Why  is  it  that  we  can  better  bear  to 
part  in  spirit  than  in  body,  and,  while 
we  have  the  fortitude  to  act  farewell, 
have  not  the  nerve  to  say  it?  On  the 
eve  of  long  voyages  or  an  absence  of 
many  years,  friends  who  are  tenderly 
attached  will  separate  w'ith  the  usual 
look,  the  usual  pressure  of  the  hand, 
planning  one  final  interview  for  the 
morrow,  while  each  well  knows  that  it 
is  but  a poor  feint  to  save  the  pain  of 
uttering  that  one  word,  and  that  the 
meeting  will  never  be.  Should  possibil- 
ities be  worse  to  bear  than  certainties  ? 
We  do  not  shun  our  dying  friends : the 
not  having  distinctly  taken  leave  of  one 
among  them,  whom  we  have  left  in  all 
kindness  and  affection,  will  often  em- 
bitter the  whole  remainder  of  a life. 

The  town  was  glad  with  morning 
light.  Places  that  had  shown  ugly  and 
distrustful  all  night  long,  now  wore  a 
smile  ; and  sparkling  sunbeams,  dancing 
on  chamber  windows,  and  twinkling 
through  blind  and  curtain  before  sleep- 
ers’ eyes,  shed  light  even  into  dreams, 
and  chased  away  the  shadows  of  the 
night.  Birds  in  hot  rooms,  covered  up 
close  and  dark,  felt  it  was  morning,  and 
chafed  and  grew  restless  in  their  little 
cells  ; bright-eyed  mice  Crept  back  to 
their  tiny  homes  and  nestled  timidly 
together ; the  sleek  house-cat,  forgetful 
of  her  prey,  sat  winking  at  the  rays  of 
sun  starting  through  keyhole  and  cranny 
in  the  door,  and  longed  for  her  stealthy 
run  and  warm  sleek  bask  outside.  The 
nobler  beasts,  confined  in  dens,  stood 
motionless  behind  their  bars,  and  gazed 
on  fluttering  boughs,  and  sunshine  peep- 
ing through  some  little  window,  with 
eyes  in  which  old  .forests  gleamed, 
then  trod  impatiently  the  track  their 
prisoned  feet  had  worn,  and  stopped 
and  gazed  again.  Men  in  their  dun- 
geons stretched  their  cramped  cold 
limbs,  and  cursed  the  stone  that  no 
bright  sky  could  warm.  The  flowers 
that  sleep  by  night  opened  their  gentle 
eyes  and  turned  them  to  the  day.  The 
light,  creation’s  mind,  was  everywhere, 
and  all  things  owned  its  power. 

The  two  pilgrims,  often  pressing  each 
other’s  hands,  or  exchanging  a smile  or 


cheerful  look,  pursued  their  way  in  si- 
lence. Bright  and  happy  as  it  was, 
there  was  something  solemn  in  the  long 
deserted  streets,  from  which,  like  bod- 
ies without  souls,  all  habitual  character 
and  expression  had  departed,  leaving 
but  one  dead  uniform  repose,  that  made 
them  all  alike.  All  was  so  still  at  that 
early  hour,  that  the  few  pale  people 
whom  they  met  seemed  as  much  un- 
suited to  the  scene  as  the  sickly  lamp 
which  had  been  here  and  there  left 
burning  was  powerless  and  faint  in  the 
full  glory  of  the  sun. 

Before  they  had  penetrated  very  far 
into  the  labyrinth  of  men’s  abodes 
which  yet  lay  between  them  and  the 
outskirts,  this  aspect  began  to  melt 
away,  and  noise  and  bustle  to  usurp 
its  place.  Some  straggling  carts  and 
coaches,  rumbling  by,  first  broke  the 
charm,  then  others  came,  then  others 
yet  more  active,  then  a crowd.  The 
wonder  was,  at  first,  to  see  a trades- 
man’s room  window  open,  but  it  was 
a rare  thing  to  see  one  closed  ; then, 
smoke  rose  slowly  from  the  chimneys, 
and  sashes  were  thrown  up  to  let  in 
air,  and  doors  were  opened,  and  ser- 
vant-girls, looking  lazily  in  all  direc- 
tions but  their  brooms,  scattered  brown 
clouds  of  dust  into  the  eyes  of  shrink- 
ing passengers,  or  listened  disconso- 
lately to  milkmen  who  spoke  of  country 
fairs,  and  told  of  wagons  in  the  mews, 
with  awnings  and  all  things  complete, 
and  gallant  swains  to  boot,  which 
another  hour  would  see  upon  their 
journey. 

4 This  quarter  passed,  they  came  upon 
the  haunts  of  commerce  and  great 
traffic,  where  many  people  were  resort- 
ing, and  business  was  already  rife. 
The  old  man  looked  about  him  with  a 
startled  and  bewildered  gaze,  for  these 
were  places  that  he  hoped  to  shun. 

He  pressed  his  finger  on  his  lip,  and 
drew  the  child  along  by  narrow  courts 
and  winding  ways,  nor  did  he  seem  at 
ease  until  they  had  left  it  far  behind,  | 
often  casting  a backward  look  towards 
it,  murmuring  that  ruin  and  self-murder 
were  crouching  in  every  street,  and 
would  follow  if  they  scented  them  ; and 
that  they  could  not  fly  too  fast. 

Again,  this  quarter  passed,  they  came 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


75 


upon  a straggling  neighborhood,  where 
the  mean  houses,  parcelled  off  in  rooms, 
and  windows  patched  with  rags  and 
paper,  told  of  the  populous  poverty 
that  sheltered  there.  The  shops  sold 
goods  that  only  poverty  could  buy,  and 
sellers  and  buyers  were  pinched  and 
griped  alike.  Here  were  poor  streets 
where  faded  gentility  essayed,  with 
scanty  space  and  shipwrecked  means, 
to  make  its  last  feeble  stand,  but  tax- 
gatherer  and  creditor  came  there  as 
elsewhere,  and  the  poverty  that  yet 
faintly  struggled  was  hardly  less  squal- 
id and  manifest  than  that  which  had 
long  ago  submitted  and  given  up  the 
game. 

This  was  a wide,  wide  track,  — for  the 
humble  followers  of  the  camp  of  wealth 
pitch  iheir  tents  round  about  it  for  many 
a mile, — but  its  character  was  still 
the  same.  Damp,  rotten  houses,  many 
to  let,  many  yet  building,  many  half 
built  and  mouldering  away,  — lodgings, 
where  it  would  be  hard  to  tell  which 
needed  pity  most,  those  who  let  or  those 
who  came  to  take, — children,  scantily 
fed  and  clothed,  spread  over  every  street, 
and  sprawling  in  the  dust,  — scolding 
mothers,  stamping  their  slipshod  feet 
with  noisy  threats  upon  the  pavement, 
— shabby  fathers,  hurrying  with  dis- 
irited  looks  to  the  occupation  which 
rought  them  “daily  bread”  and  little 
more,  — mangling- women,  washerwo- 
men, cobblers,  tailors,  chandlers,  driving 
their  trades  in  parlors  and  kitchens  and 
back  rooms  and  garrets,  and  sometimes 
ail  of  them  under  the  same  roof,  — brick- 
fields skirting  gardens  paled  with  staves 
of  old  casks,  or  timber  pillaged  from 
houses  burnt  down,  and  blackened  and 
blistered  by  the  flames, — mounds  of 
dock-weed,  nettles,  coarse  grass,  and 
oyster-shells,  heaped  in  rank  confusion, 
^ small  dissenting  chapels  to  teach, 
with  no  lack  of  illustration,  the  miseries 
z>f  earth,  and  plenty  of  new  churches, 
erected  with  a little  superfluous  wealth, 
to  show  the  way  to  heaven. 

At  length  these  streets,  becoming 
more  straggling  yet,  dwindled  and 
dwindled  away,  until  there  were  only 
small  garden-patches  bordering  the 
road,  with  many  a summer-house,  inno- 
cent of  paint  and  built  of  old  timber  or 


some  fragments  of  a boat,  green  as  the 
tough  cabbage-stalks  that  grew  about 
it,  and  grottoed  at  the  seams  with  toad- 
stools and  tight-sticking  snails.  To 
these  succeeded  pert  cottages,  two  and 
two,  with  plots  of  ground  in  front,  laid 
put  in  angular  beds  with  stiff  box  bor- 
ders and  narrow  paths  between,  where 
footstep  never  strayed  to  make  the 
gravel  rough.  Then  came  the  public- 
house,  freshly  painted  in  green  and 
white,  with  tea-gardens  and  a bowling- 
green,  spurning  its  old  neighbor  with 
the  horse-trough  where  the  wagons 
stopped  ; then  fields  ; and  then  some 
houses,  one  by  one,  of  goodly  size,  with 
lawns,  some  even  with  a lodge  where 
dwelt  a porter  and  his  wife.  Then 
came  a turnpike  ; then  fields  again,  with 
trees  and  haystacks ; then  a hill,  and, 
on  the  top  of  that,  the  traveller  might 
stop,  and  — looking  back  at  old  St. 
Paul’s  looming  through  the  smoke,  its 
cross  peeping  above  the  cloud  (if  the 
day  were  clear)  and  glittering  in  the 
sun ; and  casting  his  eyes  upon  the 
Babel  out  which  it  grew,  until  he  traced 
it  down  to  the  farthest  outposts  of  the 
invading  army  of  bricks  and  mortar 
whose  station  lay  for  the  present  nearly 
at  his  feet  — might  feel  at  last  that  he 
was  clear  of  London. 

Near  such  a spot  as  this,  and  in  a 
pleasant  field,  the  old  man  and  his 
little  guide  (if  guide  she  were  who 
knew  not  whither  they  were  bound)  sat 
down  to  rest.  She  had  had  the  precau- 
tion to  furnish  her  basket  with  some 
slices  of  bread  and  meat,  and  here  they 
made  their  frugal  breakfast. 

The  freshness  of  the  day,  the  singing 
of  the  birds,  the  beauty  of  the  waving 
grass,  the  deep-green  leaves,  the  wild- 
flowers,  and  the  thousand  exquisite 
scents  and  sounds  that  floated  in  the 
air  — deep  joys  to  most  of  us,  but  most 
of  all  to  those  whose  life  is  in  a crowd, 
or  who  live  solitarily  in  great  cities  as 
in  Ijie  bucket  of  a human  well — sunk 
into  their  breasts  and  made  them  very 
glad.  The  child  had  repeated  her  art- 
less prayers  once  that  morning,  more 
earnestly,  perhaps,  than  she  had  ever 
done  in  all  her  life,  but  as  she  felt  all 
this,  they  rose  to  her  lips  again.  The 
old  man  took  off  his  hat ; he  had  no 


?6 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


memory  for  the  words,  but  he  said 
amen,  and  that  they  were  very  good. 

There  had  been  an  old  copy  of  the 
Pilgrim’s  Progress,  with  strange  plates, 
upon  a shelf  at  home,  over  which  she 
had  often  pored  whole  evenings,  won- 
dering whether  it  was  true  in  every 
word,  and  where  those  distant  countries 
with  the  curious  names  might  be.  As 
she  looked  back  upon  the  place  they 
had  left,  one  part  of  it  came  strongly  on 
her  mind. 

“ Dear  grandfather,”  she  said,  “ only 
that  this  place  is  prettier  and  a great 
deal  better  than  the  real  one,  if  that  in 
the  book  is  like  it,  I feel  as  if  we  were 
both  Christian,  and  laid  down  on  this 
grass  all  the  cares  and  troubles  we 
brought  with  us,  never  to  take  them 
up  again.” 

“No,  never  to  return, — never  to 
return,”  replied  the  old  man,  waving 
his  hand  toward  the  city.  “Thou  and 
I are  free  of  it  now,  Nell.  They  shall 
never  lure  us  back.” 

“Are  you  tired?”  said  the  child. 
“Are  you  sure  you  don’t  feel  ill  from 
this  long  walk  ? ” 

“ I shall  never  feel  ill  again,  now  that 
we  are  once  away,”  was  his  reply. 
“Let  us  be  stirring,  Nell.  We  must 
be  farther  away,  — a long,  long  way 
farther.  We  are  too  near  to  stop,  and 
be  at  rest.  Come  ! ” 

There  was  a pool  of  clear  water  in 
the  field,  in  which  the  child  laved  her 
hands  and  face,  and  cooled  her  feet, 
before  setting  forth  to  walk  again.  She 
would  have  the  old  man  refresh  himself 
in  this  way  too,  and,  making  him  sit 
down  upon  the  grass,  cast  the  water  on 
him  with  her  hands,  and  dried  it  with 
her  simple  dress. 

“ I can  do  nothing  for  myself,  my 
darling,”  said  the  grandfather.  “ I 
don’t  know  how  it  is  I could  once,  but 
the  time ’s  gone.  Don’t  leave  me, 
Nell;  say  that  thou ’It  not  leave  me. 
I loved  thee  all  the  while,  indeed  I <lid. 
If  I lose  thee  too,  my  dear,  I must 
die!” 

He  laid  his  head  upon  her  shoulder, 
and  moaned  piteously.  The  time  had 
been,  and  a very  few  days  before,  when 
the  child  could  not  have  restrained  her 
tears  and  must  have  wept  with  him. 


* 

But  now  she  soothed  him. with  gentle 
and  tender  words,  smiled  at  his  think- 
ing they  could  ever  part,  and  rallied 
him  cheerfully  upon  the  jest.  He  was 
soon  calmed  and  fell  asleep,  singing  to 
himself  in  a low  voice,  like  a little  child. 

He  awoke  refreshed,  and  they  con- 
tinued their  journey.  The  road  was 
pleasant,  lying  between  beautiful  pas- 
tures and  fields  of  corn,  above  which, 
poised  high  in  the  clear  blue  sky,  the 
lark  trilled  out  her  happy  song.  The 
air  came  laden  with  the  fragrance  it 
caught  upon  its  way,  and  the  bees,  up- 
borne upon  its  scented  breath,  hummed 
forth  their  drowsy  satisfaction  as  they 
floated  by. 

They  were  now  in  the  open  country. 
The  houses  were  very  few  and  scattered 
at  long  intervals,  often  miles  apart. 
Occasionally  they  came  upon  a cluster 
of  poor  cottages,  some  with  a chair  or 
low  board  put  across  the  open  door  to 
keep  the  scrambling  children  from  the 
road,  others  shut  up  close,  while  all 
the  family  were  working  in  the  fields. 
These  were  often  the  commencement  of 
a little  village ; and  after  an  interval 
came  a wheelwright’s  shed,  or  perhaps 
a blacksmith’s  forge  ; then  a thriving 
farm  with  sleepy  cows  lying  about  the 
yard,  and  horses  peering  over  the  low 
wall  and  scampering  away  when  har- 
nessed horses  passed  upon  the  road,  as 
though  in  triumph  at  their  freedom. 
There  were  dull  pigs,  too,  turning  up 
the  ground  in  search  of  dainty  food,  and 
grunting  their  monotonous  grumblings 
as  they  prowled  about  or  crossed  each 
other  in  their  quest ; plump  pigeons, 
skimming  round  the  roof  or  strutting  on 
the  eaves ; and  ducks  and  geese,  far 
more  graceful  in  their  own  conceit, 
waddling  awkwardly  about  the  edges 
of  the  pond  or  sailing  glibly  on  its  sur- 
face. The  farm-yard  passed,  then  came 
the  little  inn,  the  humbler  beer-shop, 
and  the  village  tradesman’s ; then  the 
lawyer’s  and  the  parson’s,  at  whose 
dread  names  the  beer-shop  trembled ; 
the  church  then  peeped  out  modestly 
from  a clump  of  trees  ; then  there  were 
a few  more  cottages;  then  the  cage 
and  pound,  and  not  unfrequently,  on  a 
bank  by  the  wayside,  a deep  old  dusty 
well.  Then  came  the  trim -hedged 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


77 


fields  on  either  hand,  and  the  open  road 
again. 

They  walked  all  day,  and  slept  that 
night  at  a small  cottage  where  beds 
were  let  to  travellers.  Next  morning 
they  were  afoot  again,  and,  though 
jaded  at  first  and  very  tired,  recovered 
before  long,  and  proceeded  briskly  for- 
ward. 

They  often  stopped  to  rest,  but  only 
for  a short  space  at  a time,  and  still 
kept  on,  having  had  but  slight  refresh- 
ment since  the  morning.  It  was  nearly 
five  o’clock  in  the  afternoon,  when, 
drawing  near  another  cluster  of  labor- 
ers’ huts,  the  child  looked  wistfully  in 
each,  doubtful  at  which  to  ask  for  per- 
mission to  rest  awhile  and  buy  a 
draught  of  milk. 

It  was  not  easy  to  determine,  for  she 
was  timid  and  fearful  of  being  repulsed. 
Here  was  a crying  child  and  there  a 
noisy  wife.  In  this,  the  people  seemed 
too  poor  ; in  that,  too  many.  At  length 
she  stopped  at  one  where  the  family 
were  seated  round  a table,  — chiefly  be- 
cause there  was  an  old  man  sitting  in  a 
cushioned  chair  beside  the  hearth,  and 
she  thought  he  was  a grandfather  and 
would  feel  for  hers. 

. There  were,  besides,  the  cottager  and 
his  wife,  and  three  young  sturdy  chil- 
dren, brown  as  berries.  The  request 
was  no  sooner  preferred  than  granted. 
The  eldest  boy  ran  out  to  fetch  some 
milk,  the  second  dragged  two  stools 
towards  the  door,  and  the  youngest 
crept  to  his  mother’s  gown,  and  looked 
at  the  strangers  from  beneath  his  sun- 
burnt hand. 

“God  save,  you,  master,’.’  said  the 
old  cottager  in  a thin,  piping  voice  ; 
“ are  you  travelling  far  ? ” 

“ Yes,  sir,  a long  way,”  replied  the 
child  ; for  her  grandfather  appealed  to 
her. 

“From  London?”  inquired  the  old 
man. 

The  child  said  yes. 

Ah  ! he  had  been  in  London  many  a 
, time,  — used  to  go  there  often  once, 
with  wagons..  It  was  nigh  two-and- 
thirty  year  since  he  had  been  there 
last,  and  he  did  hear  say  there  were 
great  changes.  Like  enough  ! He  had 
changed  himself  since  then.  Two-and- 


thirty  year  was  a long  time,  and  eighty- 
four  a great  age,  though  there  was  some 
he  had  known  that  had  lived  to  very 
hard  upon  a hundred,  and  not  so 
hearty  as  he,  neither,  — no,  nothing 
like  it. 

“ Sit  thee  down,  master,  in  the  elbow- 
chair,”  said  the  old  man,  knocking  his 
stick  upon  the  brick  floor,  and  trying  to 
do  so  sharply.  “ Take  a pinch  out  o’ 
that  box  ; I don’t  take  much  myself, 
for  it  comes  dear,  but  I find  it  wakes 
me  up  sometimes,  and  ye  ’re  but  a boy 
to  me.  I should  have  a son  pretty 
nigh  as  old  as  you  if  he ’d  lived,  but  they 
’listed  him  for  a so’ger  ; he  come  back 
home,  though,  for  all  he  had  but  one 
poor  leg.  He  always  said  he  ’d  be 
buried  near  the  sundial  he  used  to 
climb  upon  when  he  was  a baby,  did 
my  poor  boy,  and  his  words  come  true  ; 
you  can  see  the  place  with  your  own 
eyes;  we  ’ve  kept  the  turf  up,  ever 
since.” 

He  shook  his  head,  and,  looking  at 
his  daughter  with  watery  eyes,  said  she 
need  n’t  be  afraid  that  he  was  going  to 
talk  about  that  any  more.  He  did  n’t 
wish  to  trouble  nobody,  and  if  he  had 
troubled  anybody  by  what  he  said,  he 
asked  pardon,  that  was  all. 

The  milk  arrived,  and,  the  child  pro^ 
ducing  her  little  basket  and  selecting 
its  best  fragments  for  her  grandfather, 
they  made  a hearty  meal.  The  furni- 
ture of  the  room  was  very  homely,  of 
course,  — a few  rough  chairs  and  a table, 
a corner  cupboard  with  their  little  stock 
of  crockery  and  delf,  a gaudy  tea-tray, 
representing  a lady  in  bright  red,  walk- 
ing out  with  a very  blue  parasol,  a few 
common,  colored  Scripture  subjects  in 
frames  upon  the  wall  and  chimney,  an 
old  dwarf  clothes-press  and  an  eight- 
day  clock,  with  a few  bright  saucepans 
and  a kettle,  comprised  the  whole. 
But  everything  was  clean  and  neat,  and 
as  the  child  glanced  round,  she  felt  a 
tranquil  air  of  comfort  and  content  to 
which  she  had  long  been  unaccustomed. 

“ How  far  is  it  to  any  town  or  vil- 
lage ? ” she  asked  of  the  husband. 

“ A matter  of  good  five  mile,  my 
dear,”  was  the  reply  ; “ but  you  ’re  not 
going  on  to-night  ? ” 

“Yes,  yes,  Nell,”  said  the  old  man, 


?8 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


hastily,  urging  her  too  by  signs.  “ Far- 
ther on,  farther  on,  darling,  —farther 
away,  if  we  walk  till  midnight.” 

“ There ’s  a good  barn  hard  by,  mas- 
ter,” said  the  man,  “or  there  ’s  travel- 
lers’ lodging,  I know,  at  the  Plow  an’ 
Harrer.  Excuse  me,  but  you  do  seem 
a little  tired,  and  unless  you  ’re  very 
anxious  to  get  on — ” 

“Yes,  yes,  we  are,”  returned  th.e  old 
man,  fretfully.  “ Farther  away,  dear 
Nell,  pray,  farther  away.” 

“We  must  go  on,  indeed,”  said  the 
child,  yielding  to  his  restless  wish. 
“We  thank  you  very  much,  but  we 
cannot  stop  so  soon.  I ’m  quite  ready, 
grandfather.” 

But  the  woman  had  observed,  from 
the  young  wanderer’s  gait,  that  one  of 
her  little  feet  was  blistered  and  sore, 
and,  being  a woman  and  a mother  too, 
she  would  not  suffer  her  to  go  until 
she  had  washed  the  place  and  applied 
some  simple  remedy,  which  she  did  so 
carefully  and  with  such  a gentle  hand 
— rough-grained  and  hard  though  it 
was  with  work  — that  the  child’s  heart 
was  too  full  to  admit  of  her  saying  more 
than  a fervent  “ God  bless  you  ! ” nor 
could  she  look  back  nor  trust  herself  to 
speak,  until  they  had  left  the  cottage 
some  distance  behind.  When  she 
turned  her  head,  she  saw  that  the  whole 
family,  even  the  old  grandfather,  were 
standing  in  the  road  watching  them  as 
they  went,  and  so,  with  many  waves  of 
the  hand,  and  cheering  nods,  and  on 
one  side,  at  least,  not  without  tears, 
they  parted  company. 

They,  trudged  forward,  more  slowly 
and  painfully  than  they  had  done  yet, 
for  another  mile  or  thereabouts,  when 
they  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  behind 
them,  and,  looking  round,  observed  an 
empty  cart  approaching  pretty  briskly. 
The  driver,  on  coming  up  to  them, 
stopped  his  horse  and  looked  earnestly 
at  Nell. 

“ Did  n’t  you  stop  to  rest  at  a cottage 
yonder?”  he  said. 

“ Yes,  sir,”  replied  the  child. 

“ Ah  ! They  asked  me  to  look  out 
for  you,”  said  the  man.  “I’m  going 
your  way.  Give  me  your  hand,  — jump 
up,  master.” 

This  was  a great  relief,  for  they  were 


very  much  fatigued  and  could  scarcely 
crawl  along..  To  them  the  jolting  cart 
was  a luxurious  carriage,  and  the  ride 
the  most  delicious  in  the  world.  Nell 
had  scarcely  settled  herself  on  a little 
heap  of  straw  in  one  corner,  when  she 
fell  asleep,  for  the  first  time  that  day. 

She  was  awakened  by  the  stopping  of 
the  cart,  which  was  about  to  turn  up  a 
by-lane.  The  driver  kindly  got  down 
to  help  her  out,  and,  pointing  to  some 
trees  at  . a very  short  distance  before 
them,  said  that  the  town  lay  there,  and 
that  they  had  better  take  the  path  which 
they  would  see  leading  through  the 
churchyard.  Accordingly,  towards  this 
spot  they  directed  their  weary  steps. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  they 
reached  the  wicket-gate  at  which  the 
path,  began,  and,  as  the  rain  falls  upon 
the  just  and  unjust  alike,  it  shed  its 
warm  tint  even  upon  the  resting-places 
of  the  dead,  and  bade  them  be  of  good 
hope  for  its  rising  on  the  morrow.  The 
church  was  old  and  gray,  with  ivy  cling- 
ing to  the  walls  and  round  the  porch. 
Shunning  the  tombs,  it  crept  about  the 
mounds,  beneath  which  slept  poor  hum- 
ble men,  twining  for  them  the  first 
wreaths  they  had  ever  won,  but  wreaths 
less  liable  to  wither,  and  far  more  lasting 
in  their  kind,  than  some  which  were 
graven  deep  in  stone  and  marble,  and 
told  in  pompous  terms  of  virtues  meekly 
hidden  for  many  a year,  and  only  re- 
vealed at  last  to  executors  and  mourn- 
ing legatees. 

The  clergyman’s  horse,  stumbling  with 
a dull  blunt  sound  among  the  graves, 
was  cropping  the  grass,  at  once  deriv- 
ing orthodox  consolation  from  the  dead 
parishioners,  and  enforcing  last  Sun- 
day’s text,  that  this  was  what  all  flesh 
came  to.  A lean  ass  who  had  sought  to 
e?g)ound  it  also,  without  being  qualified 
and  ordained,  was  pricking  his  ears  in 
an  empty  pound  hard  by,  and  looking 
with  hungry  eyes  upon  his  priestly 
neighbor. 

The  old  man  and  the  child  quitted 
the  gravel  path,  and  strayed  among  the 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


79 


iombs;  for  there  the  ground  was  soft, 
and  easy  to  their  tired  feet.  As  they 
passed  behind  the  church,  they  heard 
voices  near  at  hand,  and  presently  came 
on  those  who  had  spoken. 

They  were  two  men  who  were  seated 
in  easy  attitudes  upon  the  grass,-  and  so 
busily  engaged  as  to  be  at  first  uncon- 
scious of  intruders.  It  was  not  difficult 
to  divine  that  they  were  of  a class  of 
itinerant  showmen,  — exhibitors  of  the 
freaks  of  Punch,  — for,  perched  cross- 
legged  upon  a tombstone  behind  them, 
was  a figure  of  that  hero  himself,  his 
nose  and  chin  as  hooked,  and  his  face 
as  beaming,  as  usual.  Perhaps  his  im- 
perturbable character  was  never  more 
strikingly  developed,  for  he  preserved 
his  usual  equable  smile  notwithstanding 
that  his  body  was  dangling  in  a most 
uncomfortable  position,  all  loose  and 
limp  and  shapeless,  while  his  long  peak- 
ed cap,  unequally  balanced  against  his 
exceedingly  slight  legs,  threatened  every 
instant  to  bring  him  toppling  down. 

In  part  scattered  upon  the  ground  at 
the  feet  of  the  two  men,  and  in  part 
jumbled  together  in  a long  flat  box, 
were  the  other  persons  of  the  drama. 
The  hero’s  wife  and  one  child,  the 
hobby-horse,  the  doctor,  the  foreign 
gentleman,  who,  not  being  familiar  with 
the  language,  is  unable  in  the  repre- 
sentation to  express  his  ideas  otherwise 
than  by  the  utterance  of  the  word 
“ Shallabalah  ” three  distinct  times,  the 
.radical  neighbor,  who  will  by  no  means 
admit  that  a tin  bell  is  an  organ,  the 
executioner,  and  the  devil,  were  all 
here.  Their  owners  had  evidently  come 
to  that  spot  to  make  some  needful 
repairs  in  the  stage  arrangements,  for 
one  of  them  was  engaged  in  binding 
together  a small  gallows  with  thread, 
while  the  other  was  intent  upon,  fixing 
a new  black  wig,  with  the  aid  of  a small 
hammer  and  some  tacks,  upon  the  head 
of  the  radical  neighbor,  who  had  been 
beaten  bald. 

They  raised  their  eyes  when  the  old 
man  and  his  young  companion  were 
close  upon  them,  and,  pausing  in  their 
work,  returned  their  looks  of  curiosity. 
One  of  them,  the  actual  exhibiter  no 
doubt,  was  a little  merry-faced  man, 
with  a twinkling  eye  and  a red  nose,  I 


who  seemed  to  have  unconsciously  im- 
bibed something  of  his  hero’s  character. 
The  other  — that  was  he  who  took  the 
money  — had  rather  a careful  and  cau- 
tious look,  which  was  perhaps  insepara- 
ble from  his  occupation  also. 

The  merry  man  was  the  first  to  greet 
the  strangers  with  a nod  ; and,  following 
the  old  man’s  eyes,  he  observed  that 
perhaps  that  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  seen  a Punch  off  the  stage.  (Punch, 
it  may  be  remarked,  seemed  to  be  point- 
ing with  the  tip  of  his  cap  to  a most 
flourishing  epitaph,  and  to  be  chuckling 
over  it  with  all  his  heart.) 

“ Why  do  you  come  here  to  do  this  ? ” 
said  the  old  man,  sitting  down  beside 
them,  and  looking  at  the  figures  with 
extreme  delight. 

“ Why,  you  see,”  rejoined  the  little 
man,  “ we  ’re  putting  up  for  to-night  at 
the  public-house  yonder,  and  it  would 
n’t  do  to  let  ’em  see  the  present  com- 
pany undergoing  repair.” 

“No!”  cried  the  old  man,  making 
signs  to  Nell  to  listen.  “ Why  not,  eh  ? 
why  not? ” 

“ Because  it  would  destroy  all  the 
delusion,  and  take  away  ail  the  interest, 
wouldn’t  it?”  replied  the  little  man. 
“ Would  you  care  a ha’penny  for  the 
Lord  Chancellor,  if  you  know’d  him  in 
private  and  without  his  wig?  Certainly 
not.” 

“ Good  ! ” said  the  old  man,  ventur- 
ing to  touch  one  of  the  puppets,  and 
drawing  away  his  hand  with  a shrill 
laugh.  “ Are  you  going  to  show  ’em 
to-night?  are  you?” 

“That  is  the  intention,  governor,” 
replied  the  other,  “and  unless  I’m 
much  mistaken,  Tommy  Codlin  is  a 
calculating  at  this  minute  what  we ’ve 
lost  through  your  coming  upon  us. 
Cheer  up,  Tommy,  it  can’t  be  much.” 

The  little  man  accompanied  these 
latter  words  with  a wink,  expressive  of 
the  estimate  he  had  formed  of  the  trav- 
ellers’ finances. 

To  this  Mr.  Codlin,  who  had  a sur- 
ly, grumbling  manner,  replied,  as  he 
twitched  Punch  off  the  tombstone  and 
flung  him  into  the  box, — 

“I  don’t  care  if  we  haven’t  lost  a 
farden,  but  you’re  too  If  you 

stood  in  front  of  the  curtain  and 


So 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


public’s  faces  as  I do,  you ’d  know 
human  natur’  better.” 

“Ah!  it’s  been  the  spoiling  of  you, 
Tommy,  your  taking  to  that  branch,” 
rejoined  his  companion.  “ When  you 
played  the  ghost  in  the  reg’lar  drama 
in  the  fairs,  you  believed  in  everything 
— except  ghosts.  But  now  you  ’re  a 
universal  mistruster.  / never  see  a man 
so  changed.” 

“ Never  mind,”  said  Mr.  Codlin, 
with  the  air  of  a discontented  philoso- 
pher. “I  know  better  now,  and  p’r’aps 
I ’m  sorry  for  it.” 

Turning  over  the  figures  in  the  box, 
like  one  who  knew  and  despised  them, 
Mr.  Codlin  drew  one  forth  and  held  it 
up  for  the  inspection  of  his  friend. 

“ Look  here  ; here ’s  all  this  Judy’s 
clothes  falling  to  pieces  again.  You 
haven’t  got  a needle  and  thread,  I sup- 
pose?” 

The  little  man  shook  his  head,  and 
scratched  it  ruefully  as  he  contemplated 
this  severe  indisposition  of  a principal 
performer.  Seeing  that  they  were  at  a 
loss,  the  child  said,  timidly,  — 

“ I have  a needle,  sir,  in  my  basket, 
and  thread,  too.  Will  you  let  me  try 
to  mend  it  for  you  ? I think  I can  do 
it  neater  than  you  could.” 

Even  Mr.  Codlin  had  nothing  to  urge 
against  a proposal  so  seasonable  Nel- 
ly, kneeling  down  beside  the  box,  was 
soon  busily  engaged  in  her  task,  and 
accomplishing  it  to  a miracle. 

While  she  was  thus  engaged,  the 
merry  little  man  looked  at  her  with  an 
interest  which  did  not  appear  to  be  di- 
minished when  he  glanced  at  her  help- 
less companion.  When  she  had  finished 
her  work,  he  thanked  her,  and  inquired 
whither  they  were  travelling. 

“ N — no  farther  to-night,  I think,” 
said  the  child,  looking  towards  her 
grandfather. 

“ If  you’re  wanting  a place  to  stop 
at,”  the  man  remarked,  “ I should  ad- 
vise you  to  take  up  at  the  same  house 
with  us.  That ’s  it,  — the  long,  low 
white  house  there.  It ’s  very  cheap. 

The  old  man,  notwithstanding  his 
fatigue,  would  have  remained  in  the 
churchyard  all  night,  if  his  new  acquaint- 
ance had  stayed  there  too.  As  he  yield- 
ed to  this  suggestion  a ready  and  rap- 


turous assent,  they  all  rose  and  walked 
away  together,  — he  keeping  close  to  the 
box  of  puppets,  in  which  he  was  quite 
absorbed,  the  merry  little  man  carrying 
it  slung  over  his  arm  by  a strap  attached 
to  it  for  the  purpose,  Nelly  having  hold 
of  her  grandfather’s  hand,  and  Mr.  Cod- 
lin sauntering  slowly  behind,  casting 
up  at  the  church-tower  and  neighboring 
trees  such  looks  as  he  was  accustomed 
in  town  practice  to  direct  to  drawing- 
room and  nursery  windows,  when  seek- 
ing for  a profitable  spot  on  which  to 
plant  the  show. 

The  public-house  was  kept  by  a fat 
old  landlord  and  landlady,  who  made  no 
objection  to  receiving  their  new  guests, 
but  praised  Nelly’s  beauty  and  were  at 
once  prepossessed  in  her  behalf.  There 
was  no  other  company  in  the  kitchen 
but  the  two  showmen,  and  the  child  felt 
very  thankful  that  they  had  fallen  upon 
such  good  quarters.  The  landlady  was 
very  much  astonished  to  learn  that  they 
had  come  all  the  way  from  London,  and 
appeared  to  have  no  little  curiosity 
touching  their  further  destination.  The 
child  parried  her  inquiries  as  well  as  she 
could,  and  with  no  great  trouble,  for, 
finding  that  they  appeared  to  give  her 
pain,  the  old  lady  desisted. 

“ These  two  gentlemen  have  ordered 
supper  in  an  hour’s  time,”  she  said, 
taking  her  into  the  bar  ; “and  your  best 
plan  will  be  to  sup  with  them.  Mean- 
while you  shall  have  a little  taste  of 
something  that  ’ll  do  you  good,  for  I’m 
sure  you  must  want  it  after  all  you ’ve 
gone  through  to-day.  Now,  don’t  look 
after  the  old  gentleman,  because  when 
you ’ve  drank  that,  he  shall  have  some 
too.” 

As  nothing  could  induce  the  child  to 
leave  him  alone,  however,  or  to  touch 
anything  in  which  he  was  not  the  first 
and  greatest  sharer,  the  old  lady  was 
obliged  to  help  him  first.  When  they 
had  been  thus  refreshed,  the  whole 
house  hurried  away  into  an  empty 
stable  where  the  show  stood,  and 
where,  by  the  light  of  a few  flaring 
candles,  stuck  round  a hoop  which  hung 
by  a line  from  the  ceiling,  it  was  to  be 
forthwith  exhibited. 

And  now  Mr.  Thomas  Codlin,  the 
misanthrope,  after  blowing  away  at  the 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


Si 


Pan’s  pipes  until  he  was  intensely 
wretched,  took  his  station  on  one  side 
of  the  checked  drapery  which  concealed 
the  mover  of  the  figures,  and,  putting  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  prepared  to  reply 
to  all  questions  and  remarks  of  Punch, 
and  to  make  a dismal  feint  of  being  his 
most  intimate  private  friend,  of  believ- 
ing in  him  to  the  fullest  and  most  un- 
limited extent,  of  knowing  that  he  en- 
joyed day  and  night  a merry  and  glori- 
ous existence  in  that  temple,  and  that 
he  was  at  all  times  and  under  every  cir- 
cumstance the  same  intelligent  and  joy- 
ful person  that  the  spectators  then  be- 
held him.  All  this  Mr.  Codlin  did  with 
the  air  of  a man  who  had  made  up  his 
mind  for  the  worst  and  was  quite  re- 
signed, his  eye  slowly  wandering  about 
during  the  briskest  repartee  to  observe 
the  effect  upon  the  audience,  and  par- 
ticularly the  impression  made  upon  the 
landlord  and  landlady,  which  might  be 
productive  of  very  important  results  in 
connection  with  the  supper. 

Upon  this  head,  however,  he  had  no 
cause  for  any  anxiety,  for  the  whole  per- 
formance was  applauded  to  the  echo, 
and  voluntary  contributions  were  show- 
ered in  with  a liberality  which  testified 
yet  more  strongly  to  the  general  delight. 
Among  the  laughter  none  was  more 
loud  and  frequent  than  the  old  man’s. 
Nell’s  was  unheard,  for  she,  poor  child, 
with  her  head  drooping  on  his  shoulder, 
had  fallen  asleep,  and  slept  too  soundly 
to  be  roused  by  any  of  his  efforts  to 
awaken  her  to  a participation  in  his 
glee. 

The  supper  wras  very  good,  but  she 
was  too  tired  to  eat,  and  yet  would  not 
leave  the  old  man  until  she  had  kissed 
him  in  his  bed.  He,  happily  insensible 
to  every  care  and  anxiety,  sat  listening, 
with  a vacant  smile  and  admiring  face, 
to  all  that  his  new  friends  said;  and  it 
was  not  until  they  retired  yawning  to 
their  room,  that  he  followed  the  child 
up  stairs. 

It  was  but  a loft,  partitioned  into  two 
compartments,  where  they  were  to  rest, 
but  they  were  well  pleased  with  their 
lodging  and  had  hoped  for  none  so 
ood.  The  old  man  was  uneasy  when 
e had  lain  down,  and  begged  that 
Nell  would  come  and  sit  at  his  bedside 
6 


as  she  had  done  for  so  many  nights. 
She  hastened  to  him,  and  sat  there  till 
he  slept. 

There  was  a little  window,  hardly 
more  than  a chink  in  the  wall,  in  her 
room,  and  when  she  left  him,  she 
opened  it,  quite  wondering  at  the  si- 
lence. The  sight  of  the  old  church  and 
the  graves  about  it  in  the  moonlight, 
and  the  dark  trees  whispering  among 
themselves,  made  her  more  thoughtful 
than  before.  She  closed  the  window 
again,  and,  sitting  down  upon  the  bed, 
thought  of  the  life  that  was  before 
them. 

She  had  a little  money,  but  it  was 
very  little,  and  when  that  was  gone, 
they  must  begin  to  beg.  There  was 
one  piece  of  gold  among  it,  and  an 
emergency  might  come  when  its  worth 
to  them  would  be  increased  a hundred- 
fold. It  would  be  best  to  hide  this 
coin,  and  never  produce  it  unless  their 
case  was  absolutely  desperate,  and  no 
other  resource  was  left  them. 

# Her  resolution  taken,  she  sewed  the 
piece  of  gold  into  her  dress,  and,  going 
to  bed  with  a lighter  heart,  sunk  into  a 
deep  slumber. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Another  bright  day,  shining  in 
through  the  small  casement,  and  claim- 
ing fellowship  with  the  kindred  eyes  of 
the  child,  awoke  her.  At  sight  of  the 
strange  room  and  its  unaccustomed  ob- 
jects she  started  up  in  alarm,  wonder- 
ing how  she  had  been  moved  from  the 
familiar  chamber  in  which  she  seemed 
to  have . fallen  asleep  last  night,  and 
whither  she  had  been  conveyed.  But 
another  glance  around  called  to  her 
mind  all  that  had  lately  passed,  and 
she  sprung  from  her  bed,  hoping  and 
trustful. 

It  was  yet  early,  and,  the  old  man  be- 
ing still  asleep,  she  walked  out  into  the 
churchyard,  brushing  the  dew  from  the 
long  grass  with  her  feet,  and  often  turn- 
ing aside  into  places  where  it  grew 
longer  than  in  others,  that  she  might 
not  tread  upon  the  graves.  She  felt  a 
curious  kind  of  pleasure  in  lingering 
among  these  houses  of  the  dead,  and 


82 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


read  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombs  of 
the  good  people  (a  great  number  of  good 
people  were  buried  there),  passing  on 
from  one  to  another  with  increasing  in- 
terest. 

It  was  a very  quiet  place,  as  such  a 
place  should  be,  save  for  the  cawing  of 
the  rooks  who  had  built  their  nests 
among  the  branches  of  some  tall  old 
trees,  and  were  calling  to  one  another, 
high  up  in  air.  First,  one  sleek  bird, 
hovering  near  his  ragged  house  as  it 
swung  and  dangled  in  the  wind,  uttered 
his  hoarse  cry,  quite  by  chance,  as  it 
would  seem,  and  in  a sober  tone  as 
though  he  were  but  talking  to  himself. 
Another  answered,  and  he  called  again, 
but  louder  than  before  ; then  another 
spoke,  and  then  another  ; and  each  time 
the  first,  aggravated  by  contradiction, 
insisted  on  his  case  more  strongly. 
Other  voices,  silent  till  now,  struck  in 
from  boughs  lower  down  and  higher  up 
and  midway,  and  to  the  right  and  left, 
and  from  the  tree-tops  ; and  others,  ar- 
riving hastily  from  the  gray  church-tur- 
rets and  old  belfry  window,  joined  the 
clamor,  which  rose  and  fell,  and  swelled 
and  dropped  again,  and  still  went  on  ; 
and  all  this  noisy  contention  amidst  a 
skimming  to  and  fro,  and  lighting  on 
fresh  branches,  and  frequent  change  of 
place,  which  satirized  the  old  restless- 
ness of  those  who  lay  so  still  beneath 
the  moss  and  turf  below,  and  the  strife 
in  which  they  had  worn  away  .their 
lives. 

Frequently  raising  her  eyes  to  the 
trees  whence  these  sounds  came  down, 
and  feeling  as  though  they  made  the 
place  more  quiet  than  perfect  silence 
would  have  done,  the  child  loitered 
from  grave  to  grave,  now  stopping  to 
replace  with  careful  hands  the  bramble 
which  had  started  from  some  green 
mound  it  helped  to  keep  in  shape,  and 
now  peeping  through  one  of  the  low 
latticed  windows  into  the  church,  with 
its  worm-eaten  books  upon  the  desks, 
and  baize  of  whitened  green  moulder- 
ing from  the  pew  sides  and  leaving 
the  naked  wood  to  view.  There  were 
the  seats  where  the  poor  old  people 
sat,  worn,  spare,  and  yellow  like  them- 
selves, the  rugged  font  where  children 
had  their  names,  the  homely  altar  where 


they  knelt  in  after  life,  the  plain  black 
trestles  that  bore  their  weight  on  their 
last  visit  to  the  cool  old  shady  church. 
Everything  told  of  long  use  and  quiet, 
slow  decay.  The  very  bell-rope  in  the 
porch  was  frayed  into  a fringe,  and 
hoary  with  old  age. 

She  was  looking  at  a humble  stone 
which  told  of  a young  man  who  had 
died  at  twenty-three  years  old,  fifty-five 
years  ago,  when  she  heard  a faltering 
step  approaching,  and,  looking  round, 
saw  a feeble  woman  bent  with  the 
weight  of  years,  who  tottered  to  the 
foot  of  that  same  grave  and  asked  her 
to  read  the  writing  on  the  stone.  The 
old  woman  thanked  her  when  she  had 
done,  saying  that  she  had  had  the  words 
by  heart  for  many  a long,  long  year,  but 
could  not  see  them  now. 

“Were  you  his  mother?”  said  the 
child. 

“ I was  his  wife,  my  dear.” 

She  the  wife  of  a young  man  of  three- 
and- twenty  ! Ah,  true  ! It  was  fifty- 
five  years  ago. 

“You  wonder  to  hear  me  say  that,” 
remarked  the  old  woman,  shaking  her 
head.  “You’re  not  the  first.  Older 
folk  than  you  have  wondered  at  the 
same  thing  before  now.  Yes,  I was  his 
wife.  Death  doesn’t  change  us  more 
than  life,  my  dear.” 

“Do  you  come  here  often?”  asked 
the  child. 

“ I sit  here  very  often  in  the  summer- 
time,” she  answered.  “ I used  to  come 
here  once  to  cry  and  mourn,  but  that 
was  a weary  while  ago,  bless  God  ! ” 

“ I pluck  the  daisies,  as  they  grow, 
and  take  them  home,”  said  the  old  wo- 
man after  a short  silence.  “ I like  no 
flowers  so  well  as  these,  and  have  n’t  for 
five-and-fifty  years.  It’s  a long  time, 
and  I ’m  getting  very  old  ! ” 

Then  growing  garrulous  upon  a 
theme  which  was  new  to  one  listener, 
though  it  were  but  a child,  she  told  her 
how  she  had  wept  and  moaned  and 
prayed  to  die  herself,  when  this  hap- 
pened ; and  how,  when  she  first  came  to 
that  place,  a young  creature  strong  in 
love  and  grief,  she  had  hoped  that  her 
heart  was  breaking  as  it  seemed  to  be. 
But  that  time  passed  by,  and  although 
she  continued  to  be  sad  when  she  came 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


83 


there,  still  she  could  bear  to  come,  and 
so  went  on  until  it  was  pain  no  longer, 
but  a solemn  pleasure,  and  a duty  she 
had  learned  to  like.  And  now  that  five- 
and-fifty  years  were  gone,  she  spoke  of 
the  dead  man  as  if  he  had  been  her 
son  or  grandson,  with  a kind  of  pity  for 
his  youth,  growing  out  of  her  own  old 
age,  and  an  exalting  ofhis  strength  and 
manly  beauty,  as  compared  with  her  own 
weakness  and  decay  ; and  yet  she  spoke 
about  him  as  her  husband  too,  and, 
thinking  of  herself  in  connection  with 
him,  as  she  used  to  be  and  not  as  she 
was  now,  talked  of  their  meeting  in 
another  world  as  if  he  were  dead  but 
yesterday,  and  she,  separated  from  her 
former  self,  were  thinking  of  the  happi- 
ness of  that  comely  girl  who  seemed  to 
have  died  with  him. 

The  child  left  her  gathering  the  flow- 
ers that  grew  upon  the  grave,  and 
thoughtfully  retraced  her  steps. 

The  old  man  was  by  this  time  up  and 
dressed.  Mr.  Codlin,  still  doomed  to 
contemplate  the  harsh  realities  of  exist- 
ence, was  packing  among  his  linen  the 
candle-ends  which  had  been  saved  from 
the  previous  night’s  performance  ; while 
his  companion  received  the  compliments 
of  all  the  loungers  in  the  stable-yard, 
who,  unable  to  separate  him  from  the 
master-mind  of  Punch,  set  him  down  as 
next  in  importance  to  that  merry  outlaw, 
and  loved  him  scarcely  less.  When  he 
had  sufficiently  acknowledged  his  pop- 
ularity, he  came  in  to  breakfast,  at  which 
meal  they  all  sat  down  together. 

“ And  where  are  you  going  to-day?  ” 
said  the  little  man,  addressing  himself 
to  -Nell. 

“Indeed  I hardly  know;  we  have 
not  determined  yet,”  replied  the  child. 

“ We  ’re  going  on  to  the  races,”  said 
the  little  man.  “ If  that ’s  your  way, 
and  you  like  to  have  us  for  company, 
let  us  travel  together.  If  you  prefer 
going  alone,  only  say  the  word,  and 
you’ll  find  that  we  sha’n’t  trouble  you.” 

“We’ll  go  with  you,”  said  the  old 
man.  “ Nell,  — with  them,  with  them.” 

The  child  considered  for  a moment, 
and  reflecting  that  she  must  shortly  beg, 
and  could  scarcely  hope  to  do  so  at  a 
better  place  than  where  crowds  of  rich 
ladies  and  gentlemen  were  assembled 


together  for  purposes  of  enjoyment  and 
festivity,  determined  to  accompany  these 
men  so  far.  She  therefore  thanked  the 
little  man  for  his  offer  and  said,  glan- 
cing timidly  towards  his  friend,  that  if 
there  was  no  objection  to  their  accom- 
panying them  as  far  as  the  race  town  — 

“Objection!”  said  the  little  man. 
“ Now  be  gracious  for  once,  Tommy, 
and  say  that  you ’d  rather  they  went 
with  us.  I know  you  would.  Be  gra- 
cious, Tommy.” 

“Trotters,”  said  Mr.  Codlin,  who 
talked  very  slowly  and  ate  very  greedily, 
as  is  not  uncommon  with  philosophers 
and  misanthropes,  “you’re  too  free.” 

“Why,  what  harm  can  it  do?”  urged 
the  other. 

“No  harm  at  all  in  this  particular 
case,  perhaps,”  replied  Mr.  Codlin; 
“but  the  principle ’s  a dangerous  one, 
and  you  ’re  too  free,  I tell  you.” 

“ Well,  are  they  to  go  with  us  or 
not  ? ” 

“Yes,  they  are,”  said  Mr.  Codlin; 
“ but  you  might  have  made  a favor  of  it, 
might  n’t  you?” 

The  real  name  of  the  little  man  was 
Harris,  but  it  had  gradually  merged  into 
the  less  euphonious  one  of  Trotters, 
which,  with  the  prefatory  adjective, 
Short,  had  been  conferred  upon  him 
by  reason  of  the  small  size  of  his  legs. 
Short  Trotters,  however,  being  a com- 
pound name,  inconvenient  of  use  in 
friendly  dialogue,  the  gentleman  on 
whom  it  had  been  bestowed  was  known 
among  his  intimates  either  as  “ Short  ” 
or  “Trotters,”  and  was  seldom  accosted 
at  full  length  as  Short  Trotters,  except 
in  formal  conversations  and  on  occa- 
sions of  ceremony. 

Short,  then,  or  Trotters,  as  the  reader 
pleases,  returned  unto  the  remonstrance 
of  his  friend,  Mr.  Thomas  Codlin,  a 
jocose  answer  calculated  to  turn  aside 
his  discontent  ; and  applying  himself 
with  great  relish  to  the  cold  boiled 
beef,  the  tea,  and  bread  and  butter, 
strongly  impressed  upon  his  companions 
that  they  should  do  the  like.  Mr.  Cod- 
lin indeed  required  no  such  persuasion, 
as  he  had  already  eat  as  much  as  he 
could  possibly  carry  and  was  now  moist- 
ening his  clay  with  strong  ale,  whereof 
he  took  deep  draughts  with  a silent 


84 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


relish,  and  invited  nobody  to  partake,  — 
thus  again  strongly  indicating  his  mis- 
anthropical turn  of  mind. 

Breakfast  being  at  length  over,  Mr. 
Codlin  called  the  bill,  and,  charging  the 
ale  to  the  company  generally  (a  practice 
also  savoring  of  misanthropy),  divided 
the  sum  total  into  two  fair  and  equal 
parts,  assigning  one  moiety  to  himself 
and  friend,  and  the  other  to  Nelly  and 
her  grandfather.  These  being  duly  dis- 
charged, and  all  things  ready  for  their 
departure,  they  took  farewell  of  the  land- 
lord and  landlady  and  resumed  their  jour- 
ney. 

And  here  Mr.  Codlin’s  false  position 
in  society,  and  the  effect  it  wrought  upon 
his  wounded  spirit,  were  strongly  illus- 
trated ; for  whereas  he  had  been  last 
night  accosted  by  Mr.  Punch  as  “mas- 
ter,” and  had  by  inference  left  the 
audience  to  understand  that  he  main- 
tained that  individual  for  his  own  luxu- 
rious entertainment  and  delight,  here 
he  was,  now,  painfully  walking  beneath 
the  burden  of  that  same  Punch’s  temple, 
and  bearing  it  bodily  upon  his  shoulders 
on  a sultry  day  and  along  a dusty  road. 
In  place  of  enlivening  his  patron  with  a 
constant  fire  of  wit  or  the  cheerful  rattle 
of  his  quarter-staff  on  the  heads  of  his 
relations  and  acquaintance,  here  was 
that  beaming  Punch  utterly  devoid  of 
spine,  all  slack  and  drooping  in  a dark 
box,  with  his  legs  doubled  up  round  his 
*ieck,  and  not  one  of  his  social  qualities 
vemaining. 

Mr.  Codlin  trudged  heavily  on,  ex- 
thanging  a word  or  two  at  intervals  with 
Short,  and  stopping  to  rest  and  growl  oc- 
casionally. Short  led  the  way,  with  the 
flat  box,  the  private  luggage  (which  was 
Sot  extensive)  tied  up  in  a bundle,  and  a 
brazen  trumpet  slung  from  his  shoulder- 
blade.  N ell  and  her  grandfather  walked 
next  him  on  either  hand,  and  Thomas 
Codlin  brought  up  the  rear. 

When  they  came  to  any  town  or  vil- 
lage, or  even  to  a detached  house  of 
good  appearance,  Short  blew  a blast 
upon  the  brazen  trumpet  and  carolled 
a fragment  of  a song  in  that  hilarious 
tone  common  to  Punches  and  their  con- 
sorts. If  people  hurried  to  the  windows, 
Mr.  Codlin  pitched  the  temple,  and 
hastily  unfurling  the  drapery,  and  con- 


cealing Short  therewith,  flourished  hys- 
terically on  the  pipes  and  performed 
an  air.  Then  the  entertainment  began 
as  soon  as  might  be ; Mr.  Codlin  hav- 
ing the  responsibility  of  deciding  on  its 
length  and  of  protracting  or  expediting 
the  time  for  the  hero’s  final  triumph 
over  the  enemy  of  mankind,  according 
as  he  judged  that  the  after-crop  of  half- 
pence would  be  plentiful  or  scant.  When 
it  had  been  gathered  in  to  the  last  far- 
thing, he  resumed  his  load,  and  on  they 
went  again. 

Sometimes  they  played  out  the  toll 
across  a bridge  or  ferry,  and  once  ex- 
hibited by  particular  desire  at  a turn- 
pike, where  the  collector,  being  drunk 
in  his  solitude,  paid  down  a shilling  to 
have  it  to  himself.  There  was  one  small 
place  of  rich  promise  in  which  their  hopes 
were  blighted,  for  a favorite  character  in 
the  play,  having  gold-lace  upon  his  coat, 
and  being  a meddling,  wooden-headed 
fellow,  was  held  to  be  a libel  on  the 
beadle,  for  which  reason  the  authorities 
enforced  a quick  retreat ; but  they  were 
generally  well  received,  and  seldom 
left  a town  without  a troop  of  ragged 
children  shouting  at  their  heels. 

They  made  a long  day’s  journey, 
despite  these  interruptions,  and  were 
yet  upon  the  road  when  the  moon  was 
shining  in  the  sky.  Short  beguiled 
the  time  with  songs  and  jests,  and  made 
the  best  of  everything  that  happened. 
Mr.  Codlin,  on  the  other  hand,  cursed 
his  fate,  and  all  the  hollow  things  of 
earth  (but  Punch  especially),  and  limped 
along  with  the  theatre  on  his  back,  a 
prey  to  the  bitterest  chagrin. 

They  had  stopped  to  rest  beneqth 
a finger-post  where  four  roads  met,  and 
Mr.  Codlin  in  his  deep  misanthropy 
had  let  down  the  drapery  and  seated 
himself  in  the  bottom  of  the  show,  in- 
visible to  mortal  eyes,  and  disdainful 
of  the  company  of  his  fellow-creatures, 
when  two  monstrous  shadows  were 
seen  stalking  towards  them  from  a 
turning  in  the  road  by  which  they  had 
come.  The  child  was  at  first  quite 
terrified  by  the  sight  of  these  gaunt 
giants,  — for  such  they  looked  as  they 
advanced  with  lofty  strides  beneath  the 
shadow  of  the  trees,  — but  Short,  tell- 
ing her  there  was  nothing  to  fear,  blew 


CODLIN  AND  SHORT. 


the  library 

OF  THE 

UHlVERSttt  OF  ILUHCIS 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP.  85 


a blast  upon  the  trumpet,  which  was 
answered  by  a cheerful  shout. 

“It’s  Grinder’.s  lot,  ain’t  it?”  cried 
Mr.  Short,  in  a loud  key. 

“ Yes,”  replied  a couple  of  shrill 
voices. 

“ Come  on  then,”  said  Short.  “ Let ’s 
have  a look  at  you.  I thought  it  was 
you.” 

Thus  invited,  “ Grinder’s  lot  ” ap- 
proached with  redoubled  speed,  and 
soon  came  up  with  the  little  party. 

Mr.  Grinder’s  company,  familiarly 
termed  a lot,  consisted  of  a young 
gentleman  and  a young  lady  on  stilts, 
and  Mr.  Grinder  himself,  who  used  his 
natural  legs  '••for  pedestrian  purposes 
and  carried  at  his  back  a drum.  The 
public  costume  of  the  young  people 
was  of  the  Highland  kind,  but  the 
night  being  damp  and  cold,  the  young 
gentleman  wore  over  his  kilt  a man’s 
pea-jacket  reaching  to  his  ankles,  and 
a glazed  hat ; the  young  lady  too  was 
muffled  in  an  old  cloth  pelisse  and 
had  a handkerchief  tied  about  her  head. 
Their  Scotch  bonnets,  ornamented  with 
plumes  of  jet  black  feathers,  Mr.  Grinder 
carried  on  his  instrument. 

“Bound  for  the  races,  I see,”  said 
Mr.  Grinder  coming  up  out  of  breath. 
“ So  are  we.  How  are  you,  Short  ? ” 
With  that  they  shook  hands  in  a very 
friendly  manner.  The  young  people, 
being  too  high  up  for  the  ordinary  sal- 
utations, saluted  Short  after  their  own 
fashion.  The  young  gentleman  twisted 
up  his  right  stilt  and  patted  him  on  the 
shoulder,  and  the  young  lady  rattled 
her  tambourine. 

“ Practice  ? ” said  Short,  pointing  to 
the  stilts. 

“ No,”  returned  Grinder.  “ It  comes 
either  to  walkin’  in  ’em  or  carryin’  of 
’em,  and  they  like  walkin’  in  ’em  best. 
It’s  wery  pleasant  for  the  prospects. 
Which  road  are  you  takin’ ? We  go 
the  nighest.” 

“Why,  the  fact  is,”  said  Short, 
“ that  we  are  going  the  longest  way, 
because  then  we  could  stop  for  the 
night  a mile  and  a half  on.  But  three 
or  four  mile  gained  to-night  is  so  many 
saved  to-morrow,  and  if  you  keep  on, 
I think  our  best  way  is  to  do  the 
same.” 


“Whereas  your  partner?”  inquired 
Grinder. 

“ Here  he  is,”  cried  Mr.  Thomas 
Codlin,  presenting  his  head  and  face 
in  the  proscenium  of  the  stage,  and 
exhibiting  an  expression  of  counte- 
nance not  often  seen  there  ; “and  he  ’ll 
see  his  partner  boiled  alive  before 
he  ’ll  go  on  to-night.  That ’s  what  he 
says.” 

“ Well,  don’t  say  such  things  as 
them,  in  a spear  which  is  dewoted  to 
something  pleasanter,”  urged  Short. 
“ Respect  associations,  Tommy,  even 
if  you  do  cut  up  rough.” 

“ Rough  or  smooth,”  said  Mr.  Cod- 
lin, beating  his  hand  on  the  little  foot- 
board, where  Punch,  when  suddenly 
struck  with  the  symmetry  of  his  legs 
and  their  capacity  for  silk  stockings,  is 
accustomed  to  exhibit  them  to  popu- 
lar admiration,  — “rough  or  smooth,  I 
won’t  go  farther  than  the  mile  and  a 
half  to-night.  I put  up  at  the  Jolly 
Sandboys  and  nowhere  else.  If  you 
like  to  come  there,  come  there.  If 
you  like  to  go  on  by  yourself,  go  on 
by  yourself,  and  do  without  me  if  you 
can.” 

So  saying,  Mr.  Codlin  disappeared 
from  the  scene,  and,  immediately  pre- 
senting himself  outside  the  theatre, 
took  it  on  his  shoulders  at  a jerk,  and 
made  off  with  most  remarkable  agil- 
ity. 

Any  further  controversy  being  now 
out  of  the  question,  Short  was  fain  to 
part  with  Mr.  Grinder  and  his  pupils, 
and  to  follow  his  morose  companion. 
After  lingering  at  the  finger-post  for  a 
few  minutes  to  see  the  stilts  frisking 
away  in  the  moonlight  and  the  bearer 
of  the  drum  toiling  slowly  after  them,  he 
blew  a few  notes  upon  the  trumpet  as 
a parting  salute,  and  hastened  with  all 
speed  to  follow  Mr.  Codlin.  With  this 
view  he  gave  his  unoccupied  hand  to 
Nell,  and  bidding  her  be  of  good  cheer 
as  they  would  soon  be  at  the  end  of 
their  journey  for  that  night,  and  stimu- 
lating the  old  man  with  a similar  assur- 
ance, led  them  at  a pretty  swift  pace 
towards  their  destination,  which  he  was 
the  less  unwilling  to  make  for,  as  the 
moon  was  now  overcast,  and  the  clouds 
were  threatening  rain. 


86 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  Jolly  Sandboys  was  a small 
roadside  inn  of  pretty  ancient  date, 
with  a sign,  representing  three  Sand- 
boys increasing  their  jollity  with  as 
many  jugs  of  ale  and  bags  of  gold, 
creaking  and  swinging  on  its  post  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  road.  As  the 
travellers  had  observed  that  day  many 
indications  of  their  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  race  town,  such  as  gypsy 
camps,  carts  laden  with  gambling  booths 
and  their  appurtenances,  itinerant  show- 
men of  various  kinds,  and  beggars  and 
trampers  of  every  degree,  all  wending 
their  way  in  the  same  direction,  Mr. 
Codlin  was  fearful  of  finding  the  accom- 
modations forestalled.  This  fear  in- 
creasing as  he  diminished  the  distance 
between  himself  and  the  hostelry,  he 
quickened  his  pace,  and,  notwithstand- 
ing the  burden  he  had  to  carry,  main- 
tained a round  trot  until  he  reached  the 
threshold.  Here  he  had  the  gratifica- 
tion of  finding  that  his  fears  were  with- 
out foundation,  for  the  landlord  was 
leaning  against  the  door-post,  looking 
lazily  at  the  rain,  which  had  by  this 
time  begun  to  descend  heavily,  and  no 
tinkling  of  cracked  bell,  nor  boisterous 
shout,  nor  noisy  chorus,  gave  note  of 
company  within. 

“All  alone?”  said  Mr.  Codlin,  put- 
ting down  his  burden  and  wiping  his 
forehead. 

“All  alone  as  yet,”  rejoined  the 
landlord,  glancing  at  the  sky,  “but  we 
shall  have  more  company  to-night  I ex- 
pect. Here,  one  of  you  boys,  carry  that 
show  into  the  barn.  Make  haste  in 
out.of  the  wet,  Tom.  When  it  came  on 
to  rain,  I told  ’em  to  make  the  fire  up, 
and  there’s  a glorious  blaze  in  the 
kitchen,  I can  tell  you.” 

‘ Mr.  Codlin  followed  with  a willing 
mind,  and  soon  found  that  the  landlord 
had  not  commended  his  preparations 
without  good  reason.  A mighty  fire 
was  blazing  on  the  hearth  and  roaring 
up  the  wide  chimney  with  a cheerful 
sound,  which  a large  iron  caldron,  bub- 
bling and  simmering  in  the  heat,  lent 
its  pleasant  aid  to  swell.  There  was  a 
deep-red,  ruddy  blush  upon  the  room, 
and  when  the  landlord  stirred  the  fire, 


sending  the  flames  skipping  and  leaping 
up,  — when  he  took  off  the  lid  of  the 
iron  pot  and  there  rushed  out  a savory 
smell,  while  the  bubbling  sound  grew 
deeper  and  more  rich,  and  an  unctuous 
steam  came  floating  out,  hanging  in  a de- 
licious mist  above  their  heads, — when 
he  did  this,  Mr.  Codlin’s  heart  was 
touched.  He  sat  down  in  the  chimney- 
corner,  and  smiled. 

Mr.  Codlin  sat  smiling  in  the  chim- 
ney-corner, eying  the  landlord  as  with 
a roguish  look  he  held  the  cover  in 
his  hand,  and,  feigning  that  his  do- 
ing so  was  needful  to  the  welfare  of  the 
cookery,  suffered  the  delightful  steam 
to  tickle  the  nostrils  of  his  guest.  The 
glow  of  the  fire  was  upon  the  landlord’s 
bald  head,  and  upon  his  twinkling  eye, 
and  upon  his  watering  mouth,  and  up- 
on his  pimpled  face,  and  upon  his  round 
fat  figure.  Mr.  Codlin  drew  his  sleeve 
across  his  lips,  and  said,  in  a murmuring 
voice,  “ What  is  it  ? ” 

“ It ’s  a stew  of  tripe,”  said  the  land- 
lord, smacking  his  lips,  “ and  cow-heel,” 
smacking  them  again,  “ and  bacon,” 
smacking  them  once  more,  “ and  steak,” 
smacking  them  for  the  fourth  time, 
“and  peas,  cauliflowers,  new  potatoes, 
and  sparrowgrass,  all  working  up  to- 
gether in  one  delicious  gravy.”  Having 
come  to  the  climax,  he  smacked  his  lips 
a great  many  times,  and,  taking  a long 
hearty  sniff  of  the  fragrance  that  was 
hovering  about,  put  on  the  cover  again, 
with  the  air  of  one  whose  toils  on  earth 
were  over. 

“At  what  time  will  it  be  ready?” 
asked  Mr.  Codlin,  faintly. 

“It’ll  be  done  to  a turn,”  said  the 
landlord,  looking  up  at  the  clock,  — and 
the  very  clock  had  a color  in  its  fat 
white  face,  and  looked  a clock  for  Jolly 
Sandboys  to  consult,  — “it’ll  be  done 
to  a turn  at  twenty-two  minutes  before 
eleven.” 

“ Then,”  said  Mr.  Codlin,  “ fetch 
me  a pint  of  warm  ale,  and  don’t  let 
nobody  bring  into  the  room  even  so 
much  as  a biscuit  till  the  time  arrives.” 

Nodding  his  approval  of  this  decisive 
and  manly  course  of  procedure,  the 
landlord  retired  to  draw  the  beer,  and, 
presently  returning  with  it,  applied  him- 
self to  warm  the  same  in  a small  tin 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP.  87 


vessel  shaped  funnel-wise,  for  the  con- 
venience of  sticking  it  far  down  in  the 
fire  and  getting  at  the  bright  places. 
This  was  soon  done,  and  he  handed  it 
over  to  Mr.  Codlin,  with  that  creamy 
froth  upon  the  surface  which  is  one 
of  the  happy  circumstances  attendant 
on  mulled  malt. 

Greatly  softened  by  this  soothing 
beverage,  Mr.  Codlin  now ' bethought 
him  of  his  companions,  and  acquainted 
mine  host  of  the  Sandboys  that  their 
arrival  might  be  shortly  looked  for. 
The  rain  was  rattling  against  the  win- 
dows and  pouring  down  in  torrents, 
and  such  was  Mr.  Codlin’s  extreme 
amiability  of  mind  that  he  more  than 
once  expressed  his  earnest  hope  that 
they  would  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  get 
wet. 

At  length  they  arrived,  drenched  with 
the  rain,  and  presenting  a most  miser- 
able appearance,  notwithstanding  that 
Short  had  sheltered  the  child  as  well 
as  he  could  under  the  skirts  of  his  own 
coat,  and  they  were  nearly  breathless 
from  the  haste  they  had  made.  But 
their  steps  were  no  sooner  heard  upon 
the  road  than  the  landlord,  who  had 
been  at  the  outer  door  anxiously  watch- 
ing for  their  coming,  rushed  into  the 
kitchen  and  took  the  cover  off.  The 
effect  was  electrical.  They  all  came  in 
with  smiling  faces,  though  the  wet  was 
dripping  from  their  clothes  upon  the 
floor,  and  Short’s  first  remark  was, 
“ What  a delicious  smell ! ” 

It  is  not  very  difficult  to  forget  rain 
and  mud  by  the  side  of  a cheerful  fire, 
and  in  a bright  room.  They  were  fur- 
nished with  slippers  and  such  dry  gar- 
ments as  the  house  or  their  own  bundles 
afforded,  and,  ensconcing  themselves, 
as  Mr.  Codlin  had  already  done,  in  the 
warm  chimney-corner,  soon  forgot  their 
late  troubles,  or  only  remembered  them 
as  enhancing  the  delights  of  the  present 
time.  Overpowered  by  the  warmth  and 
comfort  and  the  fatigue  they  had  under- 
gone, Nelly  and  the  old  man  had  not 
long  taken  their  seats  here  when  they 
fell  asleep. 

“Who  are  they?”  whispered  the 
landlord. 

Short  shook  his  head,  and  wished  he 
knew  himself 


“ Don’t  you  know?  ” asked  the  host, 
turning  to  Mr.  Codlin. 

“Not  I,”  he  replied.  “They ’re  no 
good,  I suppose.” 

“ They  ’re  no  harm,”  said  Short ; 
“ depend  upon  that.  I tell  you  what, 
it ’s  plain  that  the  old  man  ain’t  in  his 
right  mind  — ” 

“ If  you  haven’t  got  anything  newer 
than  that  to  say,”  growled  Mr.  Codlin, 
glancing  at  the  clock,  “ you ’d  better  let 
us  fix  our  minds  upon  the  supper,  and 
not  disturb  us.” 

“ Hear  me  out,  won’t  you?”  retorted 
his  friend.  “ It ’s  very  plain  to  me, 
besides,  that  they’re  not  used  to  this 
way  of  life.  Don’t  tell  me  that  that 
handsome  child  has  been  in  the  habit 
of  prowling  about  as  she ’s  done  these 
last  two  or  three  days.  I know  bet- 
ter.” 

“ Well,  who  does  tell  you  she  has?  ” 
growled  Mr.  Codlin,  again  glancing  at 
the  clock  and  from  it  to  the  caldron. 
“Can’t  you  think  of  anything  more 
suitable  to  present  circumstances  than 
saying  things  and  then  contradicting 
’em?  ” 

“ I wish  somebody  would  give  you 
your  supper,”  returned  Short,  “for 
there  ’ll  be  no  peace  till  you ’ve  got  it. 
Have  you  seen  how  anxious  the  old 
man  is  to  get  on  ? — always  wanting  to 
be  furder  away,  furder  away.  Have 
you  seen  that?” 

“ Ah  ! what  then?  ” muttered  Thom- 
as Codlin. 

“This,  then,”  said  Short.  “ He  has 
given  his  friends  the  slip.  Mind  what 
I say,  — he  has  given  his  friends  the 
slip,  and  persuaded  this  delicate  young 
creetur,  all  along  of  her  fondness  for 
him,  to  be  his  guide  and  travelling  com- 
panion — where  to,  he  knows  no  more 
than  the  man  in  the  moon.  Now,  I ’m 
not  a going  to  stand  that.” 

“ You  ’re  not  a going  to  stand  that ! ” 
cried  Mr.  Codlin,  glancing  at  the  clock 
again,  and  pulling  his  hair  with  both 
hands  in  a kind  of  frenzy,  but  whether 
occasioned  by  his  companion’s  obser- 
vation or  the  tardy  pace  of  time,  it  was 
difficult  to  determine.  “ Here  ’s  a 
world  to  live  in  ! ” 

“ I,”  repeated  Short,  emphatically 
and  slowly,  “am  not  a going  to  stand 


88 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


it.  I am  not  a going  to  see  this  fair 
young  child  a falling  into  bad  hands, 
and  getting  among  people  that  she ’s 
no  more  fit  for  than  they  are  to  get 
among  angels  as  their  ordinary  chums. 
Therefore,  when  they  dewelop  an  in- 
tention of  parting  company  from  us,  I 
shall  take  measures  for  detaining  of  ’em 
and  restoring  ’em  to  their  friends,  who, 

I dare  say,  have  had  their  disconsola- 
tion  pasted  up  on  every  wall  in  Lon- 
don by  this  time.” 

“Short,”  said  Mr.  Codlin,  who,  with 
his  head  upon  his  hands  and  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  had  been  shaking  himself 
impatiently  from  side  to  side  up  to  this 
point,  and  occasionally  stamping  on  the 
ground,  but  who  now  looked  up  with 
eager  eyes,  “ it ’s  possible  that  there 
may  be  uncommon  good  sense  in  what 
you  ’ve  said.  If  there  is,  and  there 
should  be  a reward,  Short,  remember 
that  we  ’re  partners  in  everything  ! ”• 

His  companion  had  only  time  to  nod 
a brief  assent  to  this  position,  for  the 
child  awoke  at  the  instant.  They  had 
drawn  close  together  during  the  pre- 
vious whispering,  and  now  hastily  sep- 
arated and  were  rather  awkwardly  en- 
deavoring to  exchange  some  casual  re- 
marks in  their  usual  tone,  when  strange 
footsteps  were  heard  without,  and  fresh 
company  entered. 

These  were  no  other  than  four  very 
dismal  dogs,  who  came  pattering  in, 
one  after  the  other,  headed  by  an  old 
bandy  dog  of  particularly  mournful  as- 
pect, who,  stopping  when  the  last  of 
his  followers  had  got  as  far  as  the  door, 
erected  himself  upon  his  hind  legs,  and 
looked,  round  at  his  companions,  who 
immediately  stood  upon  their  hind 
legs,  in  a grave  and  melancholy  row. 
Nor  was  this  the  only  remarkable  cir- 
cumstance about  these  dogs,  for  each 
of  them  wore  a kind  of  little  coat  of 
some  gaudy  color,  trimmed  with  tar- 
nished spangles,  and  one  of  them  had  a 
Cap  upon  his  head,  tied  very  carefully 
under  his  chin,  which  had  fallen  down 
upon  his  nose  and  completely  obscured 
one  eye.  Add  to  this,  that  the  gaudy 
coats  were  all  wet  through  and  discol- 
ored with  rain,  and  that  the  wearers 
were  splashed  and  dirty,  and  some  idea 
may  be  formed  of  the  unusual  appear- 


ance of  these  new  visitors  to  the  Jolly 
Sandboys, 

Neither  Short  nor  the  landlord  nor 
Thomas  Codlin,  however,  was  the  least 
surprised,  merely  remarking  that  these 
were  Jerry’s  dogs  and  that  Jerry  could 
not  be  far  behind.  So  there  the  dogs 
stood,  patiently  winking  and  gaping 
and  looking  extremely  hard  at  the  boil- 
ing pot,  until  Jerry  himself  appeared, 
when  they  all  dropped  down  at  once 
and  walked  about  the  room  in  their 
natural  manner.  This  posture,  it  must 
be  confessed,  did  not  much  improve 
their  appearance,  as  their  own  personal 
tails  and  their  coat-tails  — both  capital 
things  in  their  way  — did  not  agree  to- 
gether. 

Jerry,  the  manager  of  these  dancing 
dogs,  was  a tall,  black-whiskered  man 
in  a velveteen  coat,  who  seemed  well 
known  to  the  landlord  and  his  guests, 
and  accosted  them  with  great  cordiality. 
Disencumbering  himself  of  a barrel  or- 
gan, which  he  placed  upon  a chair,  and  re- 
taining in  his  hand  a small  whip  where- 
with to  awe  his  company  of  comedians, 
he  came  up  to  the  fire  to  dry  himself, 
and  entered  into  conversation. 

“Your  people  don’t  usually  travel 
in  character,  do  they?”  said  Short, 
pointing  to  the  dresses  of  the  dogs. 
“It  must  come  expensive  if  they 
do.” 

“ No,”  replied  Jerry, — “ no  ; it ’s  not 
the  custom  with  us.  But  we ’ve  been 
playing  a little  on  the  road  to-day,  and 
we  come  out  with  a new  wardrobe  at 
the  races,  so  I did  n’t  think  it  worth 
while  to  stop  to  undress.  Down,  Pe- 
dro ! ” 

This  was  addressed  to  the  dog  with 
the  cap  on,  who,  being  a new  member  of 
the  company,  and  not  quite  certain  of 
his  duty,  kept  his  unobscured  eye  anx- 
iously on  his  master,  and  was  perpetu- 
ally starting  upon  his  hind  legs  when 
there  was  no  occasion,  and  falling  down 
again. 

“ I ’ve  got  a animal  here,”  said  Jerry, 
putting  his  hand  into  the  capacious 
pocket  of  his  coat,  and  diving  into  one 
corner,  as  if  he  were  feeling  for  a small 
orange  or  an  apple  or  some  such  arti- 
cle, — “a  animal  here,  wot  I think  you 
know  something  of,  Short ! ” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


89 


“ Ah  ! ” cried  Short,  “ let ’s  have  a 
look  at  him.” 

“ Here  he  is,”  said  Jerry,  producing 
a little  terrier  from  his  pocket.  “ He 
was  once  a Toby  of  yours,  wam’t  he?” 

In  some  versions  of  the  great  drama 
of  Punch  there  is  a small  dog,  — a mod- 
em innovation,  — supposed  to  be  the 
private  property  of  that  gentleman, 
whose  name  is  always  Toby.  This 
Toby  has  been  stolen  in  youth  from 
another  gentleman,  and  fraudulently 
sold  to  the  confiding  hero,  who,  having 
no  guile  himself,  has  no  suspicion  that 
it  lurks  in  others  ; but  Toby,  entertain- 
ing a grateful  recollection  of  his  old 
master,  and  scorning  to  attach  himself 
to  any  new  patrons,  not  only  refuses  to 
smoke  a pipe  at  the  bidding  of  Punch, 
but,  to  mark  his  old  fidelity  more  strong- 
ly, seizes  him  by  the  nose  and  wrings 
the  same  with  violence,  at  which  in- 
stance of  canine  attachment  the  spec- 
tators are  deeply  affected.  This  was 
the  character  which  the  little  terrier  in 
question  had  once  sustained.  If  there 
had  been  any  doubt  upon  the  subject, 
he  would  speedily  have  resolved  it  by 
his  conduct ; for  not  only  did  he,  on 
seeing  Short,  give  the  strongest  tokens 
of  recognition,  but,  catching  sight  of  the 
flat  box,  he  barked  so  furiously  at  the 
pasteboard  nose  which  he  knew  was 
inside,  that  his  master  was  obliged  to 
gather  him  up  and  put  him  into  his 
pocket  again,  to  the  great  relief  of  the 
whole  company. 

The  landlord  now  busied  himself  in 
laying  the  cloth,  in  which  process  Mr. 
Codlin  obligingly  assisted  by  setting 
forth  his  own  knife  and  fork  in  the 
most  convenient  place  and  establish- 
ing himself  behind  them.  When  every- 
thing was  ready,  the  landlord  took  off 
the  cover  for  the  last  time,  and  then  in- 
deed there  burst  forth  such  a goodly 
promise  of  supper  that,  if  he  had  offered 
to  put  it  on  again  or  had  hinted  at 
postponement,  he  would  certainly  have 
been  sacrificed  on  his  own  hearth. 

However,  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind, 
but  instead  thereof  assisted  a stout  ser- 
vant-girl in  turning  the  contents  of  the 
caldron  into  a large  tureen,  — a proceed- 
ing which  the  dogs,  proof  against  vari- 
ous hot  splashes  which  fell  upon  their 


noses,  watched  with  terrible  eagerness. 
At  length  the  dish  was  lifted  on  the  ta- 
ble, and,  mugs  of  ale  having  been  pre- 
viously set  round,  little  Nell  ventured 
to  say  grace,  and  supper  began. 

At  this  juncture  the  poor  dogs  were 
standing  on  their  hind  legs  quite  sur- 
prisingly. The  child,  having  pity  on 
them,  was  about  to  cast  some  morsels 
of  food  to  them  before  she  tasted  it  her- 
self, hungry  though  she  was,  when  their 
master  interposed. 

“ No,  my  dear,  no  ; not  an  atom  from 
anybody’s  hand  but  mine,  if  you  please. 
That  dog,”  said  Jerry,  pointing  out  the 
old  leader  of  the  troop,  and  speaking  in 
a terrible  voice,  “ lost  a half-penny  to- 
day. He  goes  without  his  supper.” 

The  unfortunate  creature  dropped 
upon  his  fore-legs  directly,  wagged  his 
tail,  and  looked  imploringly  at  his  mas- 
ter. 

“ You  must  be  more  careful,  sir,” 
said  Jerry,  walking  coolly  to  the  chair 
where  he  had  placed  the  organ,  and  set- 
ting the  stop.  “ Come  here.  Now,  sir, 
you  play  away  at  that,  while  we  have 
supper,  and  leave  off  if  you  dare  ! ” 

The  dog  immediately  began  to  grind 
most  mournful  music.  His  master,  hav- 
ing shown  him  the  whip,  resumed  his 
seat  and  called  up  the  others,  who,  at 
his  directions,  formed  in  a row,  stand- 
ing upright  as  a file  of  soldiers. 

“Now,  gentlemen,”  said  Jerry,  look- 
ing at  them  attentively.  “The  dog 
whose  name ’s  called,  eats.  The  dogs 
whose  names  ain’t  called,  keep  quiet. 
Carlo  ! ” 

The  lucky  individual  whose  name  was 
called  snapped  up  the  morsel  thrown 
towards  him,  but  none  of  the  others 
moved  a muscle.  In  this  manner  they 
were  fed  at  the  discretion  of  their  mas- 
ter. Meanwhile  the  dog  in  disgrace 
ground  hard  at  the  organ,  sometimes 
in  quick  time,  sometimes  in  slow,  but 
never  leaving  off  for  an  instant.  When 
the  knives  and  forks  rattled  very  much, 
or  any  of  his  fellows  got  an  unusually 
large  piece  of  fat,  he  accompanied  the 
music  with  a short  howl,  but  he  imme- 
diately checked  it  on  his  master  look- 
ing round,  and  applied  himself  with 
increased  diligence  to  the  Old  Hun- 
dredth. 


90 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Supper  was  not  yet  over,  when  there 
arrived  at  the  Jolly  Sandboys  two  more 
travellers,  bound  for  the  same  haven  as 
the  rest,  who  had  been  walking  in  the 
rain  for  some  hours,  and  came  in  shin- 
ing and  heavy  with  water.  One  of 
these  was  the  proprietor  of  a giant 
and  a little  lady  without  legs  or  arms, 
who  had  jogged  forward  in  a van  ; the 
other,  a silent  gentleman  who  earned 
his  living  by  showing  tricks  upon  the 
cards,  and  who  had  rather  deranged 
the  natural  expression  of  his  counte- 
nance by  putting  small  leaden  lozen- 
ges into  his  eyes  and  bringing  them 
out  at  his  mouth,  which  was  one  of 
his  professional  accomplishments.  The 
name  of  the  first  of  these  new-comers 
was  Vuffin;  the  other,  probably  as  a 
pleasant  satire  upon  his  ugliness,  was 
called  Sweet  William.  To  render  them 
as  comfortable  as  he  could,  the  land- 
lord bestirred  himself  nimbly,  and  in  a 
very  short  time  both  gentlemen  were 
perfectly  at  their  ease. 

“How’s  the  Giant?”  said  Short, 
when  they  all  sat  smoking  round  the 
fire. 

“ Rather  weak  upon  his  legs,”  re- 
turned Mr.  Vuffin.  “ I begin  to  be 
afraid  he  ’s  going  at  the  knees.” 

“ That ’s  a bad  lookout,”  said  Short. 

“Ay,  bad  indeed,”  replied  Mr.  Vuf- 
fin, contemplating  the  fire  with  a sigh. 
“ Once  get  a giant  shaky  on  his  legs,  and 
the  public  care  no  more  about  him  than 
they  do  for  a dead  cabbage-stalk.” 

“ What  becomes  of  the  old  giants?” 
said  Short,  turning  to  him  again  after  a 
little  reflection. 

“ They  ’re  usually  kept  in  carawans  to 
wait  upon  the  dwarfs,”  said  Mr.  Vuffin. 

“The  maintaining  of  ’em  must  come 
expensive,  when  they  can’t  be  shown, 
eh  ? ” remarked  Short,  eying  him  doubt- 
fully. 

“ It’s  better  that  than  letting  ’em  go 
upon  the  parish  or  about  the  streets,” 
said  Mr.  Vuffin.  “Once  make  a giant 
common,  and  giants  will  never  draw 
again.  Look  at  wooden  legs.  If  there 
was  only  one  man  with  a wooden  leg, 
what  a property  he' d be  ! ” 

“ So  he  would  ! ” observed  the  land- 


lord and  Short  both  together.  “ That ’s 
very  true.” 

“ Instead  of  which,”  pursued  Mr.  Vuf- 
fin, “ ifyou  was  to  advertise  Shakespeare 
played  entirely  by  wooden  legs,  it ’s  my 
belief  you  wouldn’t  draw  a sixpence.” 

“ I don’t  suppose  you  would,”  said 
Short.  And  the  landlord  said  so  too. 

“This  shows,  you  see,”  said  Mr.  Vuf- 
fin, waving  his  pipe  with  an  argumenta- 
tive air,  — “ this  shows  the  policy  of  keep- 
ing the  used-up  giants  still  in  the  cara- 
wans, where  they  get  food  and  lodging 
for  nothing,  all  their  lives,  and  in  gen- 
eral very  glad  they  are  to  stop  there. 
There  was  one  giant  — a black  ’un  — 
as  left  his  carawan  some  year  ago,  and 
took  to  carrying  coach-bills  about  Lon- 
don, making  himself  as  cheap  as  cross- 
ing-sweepers. He  died.  I make  no  in- 
sinuation against  anybody  in  particular,” 
said  Mr.  Vuffin,  looking  solemnly  round  ; 
“but  he  was  ruining  the  trade, — and 
he  died.” 

The  landlord  drew  his  breath  hard, 
and  looked  at  the  owner  of  the  dogs, 
who  nodded  and  said  gruffly  that  he 
remembered. 

“I  know  you  do,  Jerry,”  said  Mr. 
Vuffin,  with  profound  meaning.  “ I 
know  you  remember  it,  Jerry,  and  the 
universal  opinion  was,  that  it  served 
him  right.  Why,  I remember  the 
time  when  old  Maunders,  as  had  three- 
and-twenty  wans,  — I remember  the 
time  when  old  Maunders  had  in  his 
cottage  in  Spa  Fields,  in  the  winter- 
time when  the  season  was  over,  eight 
male  and  female  dwarfs  setting  down 
to  dinner  every  day,  who  was  w’aited 
on  by  eight  old  giants  in  green  coats, 
red  smalls,  blue  cotton  stockings,  and 
high-lows;  and  there  was  one  dwarf 
as  had  grown  elderly  and  wicious,  wrho, 
whenever  his  giant  wasn’t  quick 
enough  to  please  him,  used  to  stick 
pins  in  his  legs,  not  being  able  to 
reach  up  any  higher.  I know  that ’s 
a fact,  for  Maunders  told  it  me  him- 
self.” 

“ What  about  the  dwarfs,  when  they 
get  old?”  inquired  the  landlord. 

“The  older  a dw^arf  is,  the  better 
worth  he  is,”  returned  Mr.  Vuffin.  “A 
gray-headed  dwarf,  w'ell  wrinkled,  is 
bcycnd  all  suspicion.  But  a giant. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


9i 


weak  in  the  legs  and  not  standing  up- 
right! — keep  him  in  the  carawan,  but 
never  show  him,  — never  show  him,  for 
any  persuasion  that  can  be  offered.” 

While  Mr.  Vuffin  and  his  two  friends 
smoked  their  pipes  and  beguiled  the 
time  with  such  conversation  as  this,  the 
silent  gentleman  sat  in  a warm  corner, 
swallowing,  or  seeming  to  swallow,  six- 
ennyworth  of  half-pence  for  practice, 
alancing  a feather  upon  his  nose,  and 
rehearsing  other  feats  of  dexterity  of 
that  kind,  without  paying  any  regard 
whatever  to  the  company,  who  in  their 
turn  left  him  utterly  unnoticed.  At 
length  the  weary  child  prevailed  upon 
her  grandfather  to  retire,  and  they  with- 
drew, leaving  the  company  yet  seated 
round  the  fire,  and  the  dogs  fast  asleep 
at  a humble  distance. 

After  bidding  the  old  man  good  night, 
Nell  retired  to  her  poor  garret,  but  had 
scarcely  closed  the  door,  when  it  was 
gently  tapped  at.  She  opened  it  di- 
rectly, and  was  a little  startled  by  the 
sight  of  Mr.  Thomas  Codlin,  whom  she 
had  left  to  all  appearance  fast  asleep 
down  stairs. 

“What  is  the  matter?”  said  the 
child. 

“Nothing’s  the  matter,  my  dear,” 
returned  her  visitor.  “I  ’m  your  friend. 
Perhaps  you  have  n’t  thought  so,  but 
it ’s  me  that ’s  your  friend,  not  him.” 

“ Not  who  ? ” the  child  inquired. 

“ Short,  my  dear.  I tell  you  what,” 
said  Codlin,  “for  all  his  having  a kind 
of  way  with  him  that  you ’d  be  very 
apt  to  like,  I ’m  the  real,  open-hearted 
man.  I mayn’t  look  it,  but  I am  in- 
deed.” 

The  child  began  to  be  alarmed,  con- 
sidering that  the  ale  had  taken  effect 
upon  Mr.  Codlin,  and  that  this  commen- 
dation of  himself  was  the  consequence. 

“ Short ’s  very  well  and  seems  kind,” 
resumed  the  misanthrope,  “ but  he  over- 
does it.  Now  I don’t.” 

Certainly  if  there  were  any  fault  in 
Mr.  Codlin’s  usual  deportment,  it  was 
that  he  rather  underdid  his  kindness  to 
those  about  him  than  overdid  it.  But 
the  child  was  puzzled  and  could  not  tell 
what  to  say. 

“Take  my  advice,”  said  Codlin; 
“don’t  ask  me  why,  but  take  it.  As 


long  as  you  travel  with  us,  keep  as  near 
me  as  you  can.  Don’t  offer  to  leave  us, 
— not  on  any  account,  — but  always  stick 
to  me  and  say  that  I ’m  your  friend.  Will 
you  bear  that  in  mind,  my  dear,  and  al- 
ways say  that  it  was  me  that  was  your 
friend?  ” 

“Say  so  where  — and  when?”  in- 
quired the  child,  innocently. 

“ O,  nowhere  in  particular,”  replied 
Codlin,  a little  put  out  as  it  seemed  by 
the  question  ; “I’m  only  anxious  that 
you  should  think  me  so,  and  do  me 
justice.  You  can’t  think  what  an  inter- 
est I have  in  you.  Why  didn’t  you 
tell  me  your  little  history,  — that  about 
you  and  the  poor  old  gentleman  ? I ’m 
the  best  adviser  that  ever  was,  and  so 
interested  in  you, — so  much  more  in- 
terested than  Short.  I think  they’re 
breaking  up  down  stairs.  You  need  n’t 
tell  Short,  you  know,  that  we ’ve  had 
this  little  talk  together.  God  bless 
you.  Recollect  the  friend.  Codlin ’s 
the  friend,  not  Short.  Short ’s  very 
well  as  far  as  he  goes,  but  the  real 
friend  is  Codlin,  not  Short.” 

Eking  out  these  professions  with  a 
number  of  benevolent  and  protecting 
looks  and  great  fervor  of  manner, 
Thomas  Codlin  stole  away  on  tiptoe, 
leaving  the  child  in  a state  of  extreme 
surprise.  She  was  still  ruminating  up- 
on his  curious  behavior,  when  the  floor 
of  the  crazy  stairs  and  landing  cracked 
beneath  the  tread  of  the  other  travel- 
lers, who  were  passing  to  their  beds. 
When  they  had  all  passed,  and  the 
sound  of  their  footsteps  had  died  away, 
one  of  them  returned,  and  after  a little 
hesitation  and  rustling  in  the  passage, 
as  if  he  were  doubtful  what  door  to 
knock  at,  knocked  at  hers. 

“ Yes?”  said  the  child  from  within. 

“It’s  me,  — Short,”  a voice  called 
through  the  keyhole.  “ I only  wanted 
to  say  that  we  must  be  off  early  to- 
morrow morning,  my  dear,  because, 
unless  we  get  the  start  of  the  dogs 
and  the  conjurer,  the  villages  won’t  be 
worth  a penny.  You  ’ll  be  sure  to  be 
stirring  early  and  go  with  us  ? I ’ll 
call  you.” 

The  child  answered  in  the  affirma- 
tive, and,  returning  his  “good-night,” 
heard  him  creep  away.  She  felt  some 


92 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


uneasiness  at  the  anxiety  of  these  men, 
increased  by  the  recollection  of  their 
whispering  together  down  stairs  and 
their  slight  confusion  when  she  awoke, 
nor  was  she  quite  free  from  a misgiv- 
ing that  they  were  not  the  fittest  com- 
panions she  could  have  stumbled  on. 
Her  uneasiness,  however,  was  nothing, 
weighed  against  her  fatigue ; and  she 
soon  forgot  it  in  sleep. 

Very  early  next  morning  Short  ful- 
filled his  promise,  and,  knocking  softly 
at  her  door,  entreated  that  she  would 
get  up  directly,  as  the  proprietor  of 
the  dogs  was  still  snoring,  and  if  they 
lost  no  time  they  might  get  a good  deal 
in  advance  both  of  him  and  the  con- 
jurer, who  was  talking  in  his  sleep,  and, 
from  what  he  could  be  heard  to  say, 
appeared  to  be  balancing  a donkey  in 
his  dreams.  She  started  from  her  bed 
without  delay,  and  roused  the  old  man 
with  so  much  expedition  that  they  were 
both  ready  as  soon  as  Short  himself,  to 
that  gentleman’s  unspeakable  gratifica- 
tion and  relief. 

After  a very  unceremonious  and 
scrambling  breakfast,  of  which  the  staple 
commodities  were  bacon  and  bread  and 
beer,  they  took  leave  of  the  landlord 
and  issued  from  the  door  of  the  Jolly 
Sandboys.  The  morning  was  fine  and 
warm,  the  ground  cool  to  the  feet  after 
the  late  rain,  the  hedges  gayer  and  more 
green,  the  air  clear,  and  everything 
fresh  and  healthful.  Surrounded  by 
these  influences,  they  walked  on  pleas- 
antly enough. 

They  had  not  gone  very  far,  when  the 
child  w'as  again  struck  by  the  altered 
behavior  of  Mr.  Thomas  Codlin,  who, 
instead  of  plodding  on  sulkily  by  him- 
self as  he  had  theretofore  done,  kept 
close  to  her,  and  when  he  had  an  op- 
portunity of  looking  at  her  unseen  by 
his  companion,  warned  her  by  certain 
wry  faces  and  jerks  of  the  head  not  to 
put  any  trust  in  Short,  but  to  reserve 
all  confidences  for  Codlin.  Neither  did 
he  confine  himself  to  looks  and  gestures, 
for  when  she  and  her  grandfather  were 
walking  on  beside  the  aforesaid  Short, 
and  that  little  man  was  talking  with  his 
accustomed  cheerfulness  on  a variety  of 
indifferent  subjects,  Thomas  Codlin  tes- 
tified his  jealousy  and  distrust  by  follow- 


ing close  at  her  heels,  and  occasionally 
admonishing  her  ankles  with  the  legs  of 
the  theatre,  m a very  abrupt  and  painful 
manner. 

All  these  proceedings  naturally  made 
the  child  more  watchful  and  suspicious, 
and  she  soon  observed,  that,  whenever 
they  halted  to  perform  outside  a village 
alehouse  or  other  place,  Mr.  Codlin, 
while  he  went  through  his  share  of  the 
entertainments,  kept  his  eye  steadily 
upon  her  and  the  old  man,  or,  with  a 
show  of  great  friendship  and  considera- 
tion, invited  the  latter  to  lean  upon  his 
arm,  and  so  held  him  tight  until  the 
representation  was  over  and  they  again 
went  forward.  Even  Short  seemed  to 
change  in  this'  respect,  and  to  mingle 
with  his  good-nature  something  of  a de- 
sire to  keep  them  in  safe  custody.  This 
increased  the  child’s  misgivings,  and 
made  her  yet  more  anxious  and  uneasy. 

Meanwhile  they  were  drawing  near 
the  town  where  the  races  were  to  begin 
next  day  ; for,  ‘from  passing  numerous 
groups  of  gypsies  and  trampers  on  the 
road,  wending  their  way  towards  it,  and 
straggling  out  from  every  by-way  and 
cross-country  lane,  they  gradually  fell 
into  a stream  of  people,  some  walking 
by  the  side  of  covered  carts,  others  with 
horses,  others  with  donkeys,  others  toil- 
ing on  with  heavy  loads  upon  their 
backs,  but  all  tending  to  the  same  point. 
The  public-houses  by  the  wayside,  from 
being  empty  and  noiseless  as  those  in 
the  remoter  parts  had  been,  now  sent 
out  boisterous  shouts  and  clouds  of 
smoke  ; and  from  the  misty  windows 
clusters  of  broad  red  faces  looked  down 
upon  the  road.  On  every  piece  of  waste 
or  common  ground,  some  small  gambler 
drove  his  noisy  trade,  and  bellowed  to 
the  idle  passers  by  to  stop  and  try  their 
chance  ; the  crowd  grew  thicker  and 
more  noisy  ; gilt  gingerbread  in  blank- 
et-stalls exposed  its  glories  to  the  dust ; 
and  often  a four-horse  carriage,  dashing 
by,  obscured  all  objects  in  the  gritty 
cloud  it  raised,  and  left  them,  stunned 
and  blinded,  far  behind. 

It  was  dark  before  they  reached  the 
town  itself,  and  long  indeed  the  few  last 
miles  had  been.  Here  all  was  tumult 
and  confusion  ; the  streets  were  filled 
with  throngs  of  people  ; many  stran- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


93 


gers  were  there,  it  seemed  by  the  looks 
they  cast  about ; the  church-bells  rang 
out  their  noisy  peals  ; and  flags  streamed 
from  windows  and  house-tops.  In  the 
large  inn-yards  waiters  flitted  to  and  fro 
and  ran  against  each  other,  horses  clat- 
tered on  the  uneven  stones,  carriage 
steps  fell  rattling  down,  and  sickening 
smells  from  many  dinners  came  in  a 
heavy,  lukewarm  breath  upon  the  sense. 
In  the  smaller  public-houses,,  fiddles 
with  all  their  might  and  main  were 
squeaking  out  the  tune  to  staggering 
feet  ; drunken  men,  oblivious  of  the 
burden  of  their  song,  joined  in  a sense- 
less howl,  which  drowned  the  tinkling 
of  the  feeble  bell  and  made  them  savage 
for  their  drink ; vagabond  groups  as- 
sembled round  the  doors  to  see  the 
stroller  woman  dance,  and  add  their  up- 
roar to  the  shrill  flageolet  and  deafening 
drum. 

Through  this  delirious  scene,  the 
child,  frightened  and  repelled  by  all  she 
saw,  led  on  her  bewildered  charge, 
clinging  close  to  her  conductor,  and 
trembling  lest  in  the  press  she  should 
be  separated  from  him  and  left  to  find 
her  way  alone.  Quickening  their  steps 
to  get  clear  of  all  the  roar  and  riot,  they 
at  length  passed  through  the  town,  and 
made  for  the  race-course,  which  was 
upon  an  open  heath,  situated  on  an 
eminence,  a full  mile  distant  from  its 
farthest  bounds. 

Although  there  were  many  people 
here,  none  of  the  best  favored  or  best 
clad,  busily  erecting  tents  and  driving 
stakes  into  the  ground  and  hurrying  to 
and  fro  with  dusty  feet  and  many  a 
grumbled  oath,  — although  there  were 
tired  children  cradled  on  heaps  of  straw 
between  the  wheels  of  carts,  crying 
themselves  to  sleep,  and  poor  lean 
horses  and  donkeys  just  turned  loose, 
grazing  among  the  men  and  women, 
and  pots  and  kettles,  and  half-lighted 
fires,  and  ends  of  candles  flaring  and 
wasting  in  the  air,  — for  all  this,  the 
child  felt  it  an  escape  from  the  town, 
and  drew  her  breath  more  freely.  After 
a scanty  supper,  the  purchase  of  which 
reduced  her  little  stock  so  low  that  she 
had  only  a few  half-pence  with  which  to 
buy  a breakfast  on  the  morrow,  she  and 
the  old  man  lay  down  to  rest  in  a corner 


of  a tent,  and  slept,  despite  the  busy 
preparations  that  were  going  on  around 
them  all  night  long. 

And  now  they  had  come  to  the  time 
when  they  must  beg  their  bread.  Soon 
after  sunrise  in  the  morning  she  stole 
out  from  the  tent,  and,  rambling  into 
some  fields  at  a short  distance,  plucked 
a few  wild  roses  and  such  humble 
flowers,  purposing  to  make  them  into 
little  nosegays  and  offer  them  to  the 
ladies  in  the  carriages  when  the  com- 
pany arrived.  Her  thoughts  were  not 
idle  while  she  was  thus  employed. 
When  she  returned  and  was  seated 
beside  the  old  man  in  one  corner  of  the 
tent,  tying  her  flowers  together  while 
the  two  men  lay  dozing  in  another  cor- 
ner, she  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve,  and, 
slightly  glancing  towards  them,  said  in 
a low  voice,  — 

“ Grandfather,  don’t  look  at  those  I 
talk  of,  and  don’t  seem  as  if  I spoke  of 
anything  but  what  I am  about.  What 
was  that  you  told  me  before  we  left  the 
old  house  ? That  if  they  knew  what  we 
were  going  to  do,  they  would  say  that 
you  were  mad,  and  part  us  ? ” 

The  old  man  turned  to  her  with  an 
aspect  of  wild  terror  ; but  she  checked 
him  by  a look,  and  bidding  him  hold 
some  flowers,  while  she  tied  them  up, 
and  so  bringing  her  lips  closer  to  his  ear, 
said,  — 

“ I know  that  was  what  you  told  me. 
You  needn’t  speak,  dear.  I recollect 
it  very  well.  It  was  not  likely  that  I 
should  forget  it.  Grandfather,  these 
men  suspect  that  we  have  secretly  left 
our  friends,  and  mean  to  carry  us  before 
some  gentleman  and  have  us  taken  care 
of  and  sent  back.  If  you  let  your  hand 
tremble  so,  we  can  never  get  away  from 
them,  but  if  you  ’re  only  quiet  now,  we 
shall  do  so  easily.” 

“How?”  muttered  the  old  man. 
“Dear  Nelly,  how?  They  will  shut 
me  up  in  a stone  room,  dark  and  cold, 
and  chain  me  up  to  the  wall,  Nell, 
flog  me  with  whips,  and  never  let  me 
see  thee  more  ! ” 

“You  ’re  trembling  again,”  said  the 
child.  “ Keep  close  to  me  all  day. 
Never  mind  them  ; don’t  look  at  them, 
but  me.  I shall  find  a time  when  we 
can  steal  away.  When  I do,  mind  you 


94 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


come  with  me,  and  do  not  stop  or  speak 
a word.  Hush!  That ’s  all.” 

“ Halloa  ! what  are  you  up  to,  my 
dear?”  said  Mr.  Codlin,  raising  his 
head,  and  yawning.  Then  observing 
that  his  companion  was  fast  asleep,  he 
added  in  an  earnest  whisper,  “ Codlin  ’s 
the  friend,  remember,  not  Short.” 

“ Making  some  nosegays,”  the  child 
replied  ; “I  am  going  to  try  and  sell 
some,  these  three  days  of  the  races. 
Will  you  have  one — as  a present,  I 
mean  ? ” 

Mr.  Codlin  would  have  risen  to  re- 
ceive it,  but  the  child  hurried  towards 
him  and  placed  it  in  his  hand.  He 
stuck  it  in  his  button-hole,  with  an  air  of 
ineffable  complacency  for  a misanthrope, 
and,  leering  exultinglyat  the  unconscious 
Short,  muttered,  as  he  laid  himself  down 
again,  “ Tom  Codlin ’s  the  friend  by 
G—  ! ” 

As  the  morning  wore  on,  the  tents 
assumed  a gayer  and  more  brilliant  ap- 
pearance, and  long  lines  of  carriages 
came  rolKng  softly  on  the  turf.  Men 
who  had  lounged  about  all  night  in 
smock-frocks  and  leather  leggings  came 
out  in  silken  vests  and  hats  and  plumes 
as  jugglers  or  mountebanks  ; or  in  gor- 
geous liveries  as  soft-spoken  servants  at 
gambling  booths  ; or  in  sturdy  yeoman 
dress  as  decoys  at  unlawful  games. 
Black-eyed  gypsy  girls,  hooded  in  showy 
handkerchiefs,  sallied  forth  to  tell  for- 
tunes, and  pale  slender  women,  with 
consumptive  faces,  lingered  upon  the 
footsteps  of  ventriloquists  and  conjur- 
ers, and  counted  the  sixpences  with 
anxious  eyes  long  before  they  were 
gained.  As  many  of  the  children  as 
could  be  kept  within  bounds  were 
stowed  away,  with  all  the  other  signs  of 
dirt  and  poverty,  among  the  donkeys, 
carts,  and  horses  ; and  as  many  as  could 
not  be  thus  disposed  of  ran  in  and  out 
in  all  intricate  spots,  crept  between  peo- 
ple’s legs  and  carriage  wheels,  and  came 
forth  unharmed  from  under  horses’ 
hoofs.  The  dancing-dogs,  the  stilts, 
the  little  lady  and  the  tall  man,  and  all 
the  other  attractions,  with  organs  out 
of  number  and  bands  innumerable, 
emerged  from  the  holes  and  corners  in 
which  they  had  passed  the  night,  and 
flourished  boldly  in  the  sun. 


Along  the  uncleared  course  Short  led 
his  party,  sounding  the  brazen  trumpet 
and  revelling  in  the  voice  of  Punch  ; 
and  at  his  heels  went  Thomas  Codlin, 
bearing  the  show  as  usual,  and  keeping 
his  eye  on  Nell)'  and  her  grandfather, 
as  they  rather  lingered  in  the  rear. 
The  child  bore  upon  her  arm  the  little 
basket  with  her  flowers,  and  sometimes 
stopped,  with  timid  and  modest  looks, 
to  offer  them  at  some  gay  carriage  ; but, 
alas  ! there  were  many  bolder  beggars 
there,  — gypsies  who  promised  hus- 
bands, and  other  adepts  in  their  trade, — 
and  although  some  ladies  smiled  gently 
as  they  shook  their  heads,  and  others 
cried  to  the  gentlemen  beside  them, 
“See,  what  a pretty  face!”  they  let 
the  pretty  face  pass  on,  and  never 
thought  that  it  looked  tired  or  hungry. 

There  was  but  one  lady  who  seemed 
to  understand  the  child,  and  she  was 
one  who  sat  alone  in  a handsome  car- 
riage, while  two  young  men  in  dashing 
clothes,  who  had  just  dismounted  from 
it,  talked  and  laughed  loudly  at  a little 
distance,  appearing  to  forget  her  quite. 
There  were  many  ladies  all  around,  but 
they  turned  their  backs,  or  looked  anoth- 
er way,  or  at  the  two  young  men  (not 
unfavorably  at  them),  and  left  her  to 
herself.  She  motioned  away  a gypsy- 
woman  urgent  to  tell  her  fortune,  saying 
that  it  was  told  already,  and  had  been 
for  some  years,  but  called  the  child 
towards  her,  and,  taking  her  flowers, 
ut  money  into  her  trembling  hand,  and 
ade  her  go  home  and  keep  at  home  for 
God’s  sake. 

Many  a time  they  went  up  and  down 
those  long,  long  lines,  seeing  everything 
but  the  horses  and  the  race ; when  the 
bell  rung  to  clear  the  course,  going 
back  to  rest  among  the  carts  and  don- 
keys, and  not  coming  out  again  until 
the  heat  was  over.  Many  a time,  too, 
was  Punch  displayed  in  the  full  zenith 
of  his  humor,  but  all  this  while  the  eye 
of  Thomas  Codlin  was  upon  them,  and 
to  escape  without  notice  was  impracti- 
cable. 

At  length,  late  in  the  day,  Mr.  Cod- 
lin pitched  the  show  in  a convenient 
spot,  and  the  spectators  were  soon  in 
the  very  triumph  of  the  scene.  The 
child,  sitting  down  with  the  old  man 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


95 


close  behind  it,  had  been  thinking  how 
strange  it  was  that  horses,  who  were 
such  fine  honest  creatures,  should  seem 
to  make  vagabonds  of  all  the  men  they 
drew  about  them,  when  a loud  laugh  at 
some  extemporaneous  witticism  of  Mr. 
Short’s,  having  allusion  to  the  circum- 
stances of  the  day,  roused  her  from 
her  meditation,  and  caused  her  to  look 
around. 

If  they  were  ever  to  get  away  unseen, 
that  was  the  very  moment.  Short  was 
plying  the  quarter-staves  vigorously  and 
knocking  the  characters  in  the  fury  of 
the  combat  against  the  sides  of  the 
show,  the  people  were  looking  on  with 
laughing  faces,  and  Mr.  Codlin  had 
relaxed  into  a grim  smile  as  his  roving 
eye  detected  hands  going  into  waistcoat- 
pockets,  and  groping  secretly  for  six- 
pences. If  they  were  ever  to  get  away 
unseen,  that  was  the  very  moment. 
They  seized  it  and  fled. 

They  made  a path  through  booths 
and  carriages  and  throngs  of  people, 
and  never  once  stopped  to  look  behind. 
The  bell  was  ringing,  and  the  course 
was  cleared  by  the  time  they  reached 
the  ropes,  but  they  dashed  across  it, 
insensible  to  the  shouts  and  screeching 
that  assailed  them  for  breaking  in  upon 
its  sanctity,  and,  creeping  under  the 
brow  of  the  hill  at  a quick  pace,  made 
for  the  open  fields. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Day  after  day  as  he  bent  his  steps 
homeward,  returning  from  some  new 
effort  to  procure  employment,  Kit  raised 
his  eyes  to  the  window  of  the  little  room 
he  had  so  much  commended  to  the 
child,  and  hoped  to  see  some  indica- 
tion of  her  presence.  His  own  earnest 
wish,  coupled  with  the  assurance  he 
had  received  from  Quilp,  filled  him 
vvith  the  belief  that  she  would  yet  ar- 
rive to  claim  the  humble  shelter  he  had 
offered,  and  from  the  death  of  each 
day’s  hope  another  hope  sprung  up  to 
live  to-morrow. 

“ I think  they  must  certainly  come 
to-morrow,  eh,  mother?”  said  Kit,  lay-, 
ing  aside  his  hat  with  a weary  air  and 


sighing  as  he  spoke.  “ They  have  been 
gone  a week.  They  surely  couldn’t 
stop  away  more  than  a week,  could 
they,  now?” 

The  mother  shook  her  head,  and  re- 
minded him  how  often  he  had  been 
disappointed  already. 

“ For  the  matter  of  that,”  said  Kit, 
“you  speak  true  and  sensible  enough, 
as  you  always  do,  mother.  Still,  I do 
consider  that  a week  is  quite  long  enough 
for  ’em  to  be  rambling  about ; don’t  you 
say  so?” 

“ Quite  long  enough,  Kit ; longer 
than  enough  ; but  they  may  not  come 
ba«k  for  all  that.” 

Kit  was  for  a moment  disposed  to  be 
vexed  by  this  contradiction,  and  not  the 
less  so  from  having  anticipated  it  in  his 
own  mind  and  knowing  how  just  it  was. 
But  the  impulse  was  only  momentary, 
and  the  vexed  look  became  a kind  one, 
before  it  had  crossed  the  room. 

“ Then  what  do  you  think,  mother, 
has  become  of ’em?  You  don’t  think 
they’ve  gone  to  sea,  anyhow?” 

“Not  gone  for  sailors,  certainly,”  re- 
turned the  mother  with  a smile.  “ But 
I can’t  help  thinking  that  they  have 
gone  to  some  foreign  country.” 

“ I say,”  cried  Kit,  with  a rueful  face, 
“ don’t  talk  like  that,  mother.” 

“I  am  afraid  they  have,  and  that’s 
the  truth,”  she  said.  “ It’s  the  talk  of 
all  the  neighbors,  and  there  are  some, 
even,  that  know  of  their  having  been 
seen  on  board  ship,  and  can  tell  you  the 
name  of  the  place  they’ve  gone  too, 
which  is  more  than  I can,  my  dear,  for 
it ’s  a very  hard  one.” 

“I  don’t  believe  it,”  said  Kit ; “not 
a word  of  it.  A set  of  idle  chatterboxes, 
how  should  they  know?  ” 

“They  may  be  wrong,  of  course,”  re- 
turned the  mother.  “ I can’t  tell  about 
that,  though  I don’t  think  it ’s  at  all  un- 
likely that  they  ’re  in  the  right,  for  the 
talk  is,  that  the  old  gentleman  had  put 
by  a little  money  that  nobody  knew  of, 
not  even  that  ugly  little  man  you  talk 
to  me  about,  — what ’s  his  name,  — 
Quilp ; and  that  he  and  Miss  Nell 
have  gone  to  live  abroad  where  it  can’t 
be  taken  from  them,  and  they  will  never 
be  disturbed.  That  don’t  seem  very 
far  out  of  the  way,  now,  d\  it  ? ” 


96 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


Kit  scratched  his  head  mournfully, 
in  reluctant  admission  that  it  did  not, 
and,  clambering  up  to  the  old  nail,  took 
down  the  cage  and  set  himself  to  clean 
it,  and  to  feed  the  bird.  His  thoughts 
reverting  from  this  occupation  to  the 
little  old  gentleman  who  had  given  him 
the  shilling,  he  suddenly  recollected 
that  that  was  the  very  day  — nay,  near- 
ly the  very  hour  — at  which  the  little 
old  gentleman  had  said  he  should  be 
at  the  notary’s  house  again.  He  no 
sooner  remembered  this,  than  he  hung 
up  the  cage  with  great  precipitation, 
and,  hastily  explaining  the  nature  of  his 
errand,  went  off  at  full  speed  to  the  ap- 
pointed place. 

. It  was  some  two  minutes  after  the 
time  when  he  reached  the  spot,  which 
was  a considerable  distance  from  his 
home,  but  by  great  good  luck  the  little 
old  gentleman  had  not  yet  arrived ; at 
least,  there  was  no  pony-chaise  to  be 
seen,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  he  had 
come  and  gone  again  in  so  short  a 
space.  Greatly  relieved  to  find  that  he 
was  not  too  late,  Kit  leant  against  a 
lamp-post  to  take  breath,  and  waited 
the  advent  of  the  pony  and  his  charge. 

Sure  enough,  before  long  the  pony 
came  trotting  round  the  corner  of  the 
street,  looking  as  obstinate  as  pony 
might,  and  picking  his  steps  as  if  he 
were  spying  about  for  the  cleanest 
places,  and  would  by  no  means  dirty 
his  feet  or  hurry  himself  inconveniently. 
Behind  the  pony  sat  the  little  old  gen- 
tleman, and  by  the  old  gentleman’s  side 
sat  the  little  old  lady,  carrying  just  such 
a nosegay  as  she  had  brought  before. 

The  old  gentleman,  the  old  lady,  the 
pony,  and  the  chaise  came  up  the  street 
in  perfect  unanimity,  until  they  arrived 
within  some  half  a dozen  doors  of  the 
notary’s  house,  when  the  pony,  de- 
ceived by  a brass  plate  beneath  a tailor’s 
knocker,  came  to  a halt,  and  maintained, 
by  a sturdy  silence,  that  that  was  the 
house  they  wanted. 

“Now,  sir,  will  you  have  the  good- 
ness to  go  on  ; this  is  not  the  place,” 
said  the  old  gentleman. 

The  pony  looked  with  great  attention 
into  a fire-plug  which  was  near  him,  and 
appeared  to  be  quite  absorbed  in  con- 
templating it. 


“ O dear,  such  a naughty  Whisker  ! ” 
cried  the  old  lady.  “After  being  so 
good  too,  and  coming  along  so  well  ! I 
am  quite  ashamed  of  him.  I don’t  know 
what  we  are  to  do  with  him,  I really 
don’t.” 

The  pony,  having  thoroughly  satisfied 
himself  as  to  the  nature  and  properties 
of  the  fire-plug,  looked  into  the  air  after 
his  old  enemies  the  flies ; and  as  there 
happened  to  be  one  of  them  tickling  his 
ear  at  that  moment,  he  shook  his  head 
and  whisked  his  tail,  after  which  he 
appeared  full  of  thought  but  quite  com- 
fortable and  collected.  The  old  gen- 
tleman, having  exhausted  his  powers  of 
persuasion,  alighted  to  lead  him  ; where- 
upon the  pony,  perhaps  because  he 
held  this  to  be  a sufficient  concession, 
perhaps  because  he  happened  to  catch 
sight  of  the  other  brass  plate,  or  perhaps 
because  he  was  in  a spiteful  humor, 
darted  off  with  the  old  lady  and  stopped 
at  the  right  house,  leaving  the  old  gen- 
tleman to  come  panting  on  behind. 

It  was  then  that  Kit  presented  him- 
self at  the  pony’s  head,  and  touched  his 
hat  with  a smile. 

“ Why,  bless  me,”  cried  the  old  gen- 
tleman, “ the  lad  is  here  ! My  dear,  do 
you  see?  ” 

“ I said  I’d  be  here,  sir,”  said  Kit, 
patting  Whisker’s  neck.  “ I hope  you 
’ve  had  a pleasant  ride,  sir.  He ’s  a 
very  nice  little  pony.” 

“ My  dear,”  said  the  old  gentleman. 
“ This  is  an  uncommon  lad  ; a good 
lad,  I ’m  sure.” 

“I’m  sure  he  is,”  rejoined  the  old 
lady.  “ A very  good  lad,  and  I am 
sure  he  is  a good  son.” 

Kit  acknowledged  these  expressions 
of  confidence  by  touching  his  hat  again 
and  blushing  very  much.  The  old  gen- 
tleman then  handed  the  old  lady  out, 
and,  after  looking  at  him  with  an  ap- 
proving smile,  they  went  into  the  house, 
— talking  about  him  as  they  went,  Kit 
could  not  help  feeling.  Presently  Mr. 
Witherden,  smelling  very  hard  at  the 
nosegay,  came  to  the  window  and  looked 
at  him,  and  after  that  Mr.  Abel  came 
and  looked  at  him,  and  after  that  the 
old  gentleman  and  lady  came  and  looked 
at  him  again,  and  after  that  they  all 
came  and  looked  at  him  together,  ">vhich 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


97 


Kit,  feeling  very  much  embarrassed 
by,  made  a pretence  of  not  observing. 
Therefore  he  patted  the  pony  more  and 
more  ; and  this  liberty  the  pony  most 
handsomely  permitted. 

The  faces  had  not  disappeared  from 
the  window  many  moments,  when  Mr. 
Chuckster,  in  his  official  coat,  and  with 
his  hat  hanging  on  his  head  just  as  it 
happened  to  fall  from  its  peg,  appeared 
upon  the  pavement,  and,  telling  him 
he  was  wanted  inside,  bade  him  go  in 
and  he  would  mind  the  chaise  the  while. 
In  giving  him  this  direction  Mr.  Chuck- 
ster remarked  that  he  wished  that  he 
might  be  blessed  if  he  could  make  out 
whether  he  (Kit)  was  “precious  raw” 
or  “ precious  deep,”  but  intimated,  by 
a distrustful  shake  of  the  head,  that  he 
inclined  to  the  latter  opinion. 

Kit  entered  the  office  in  a great  tre- 
mor, for  he  was  not  used  to  going  among 
strange  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  the 
tin  boxes  and  bundles  of  dusty  papers 
had  in  his  eyes  an  awful  and  venerable 
air.  Mr.  Witherden,  too,  was  a bustling 
gentleman  who  talked  loud  and  fast, 
and  all  eyes  were  upon  him,  and  he  was 
very  shabby. 

“Well,  boy,”  said  Mr.  Witherden, 
“you  came  to  work  out  that  shilling, 
— not  to  get  another,  hey  ? ” 

“No  indeed,  sir,”  replied  Kit,  taking 
courage  to  look  up.  “ I never  thought 
of  such  a thing.” 

“ Father  alive?”  said  the  notary. 
“Dead,  sir.” 

“ Mother?  ” 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

“ Married  again,  — eh  ? ” 

Kit  made  answer,  not  without  some 
indignation,  that  she  was  a widow  with 
three  children,  and  that  as  to  her  mar- 
rying again,  if  the  gentleman  knew  her 
he  would  n’t  think  of  such  a thing.  At 
this  reply  Mr.  Witherden  buried  his 
nose  in  the  flowers  again,  and  whis- 
pered behind  the  nosegay  to  the  old 
gentleman  that  he  believed  the  lad  was 
as  honest  a lad  as  need  be. 

“ Now,”  said  Mr.  Garland,  when  they 
had  made  some  further  inquiries  of 
him,  “ I am  not  going  to  give  you  any- 
thing — ” 

“Thank  you,  sir,”  Kit  replied,  and 
quite  seriously  too,  for  this  announce- 

7 


ment  seemed  to  free  him  from  the  sus- 
picion which  the  notary  had  hinted. 

“ — But,”  resumed  the  old  gentle- 
man, “ perhaps  I may  want  to  know 
something  more  about  you,  so  tell  me 
where  you  live,  and  I ’ll  put  it  down  in 
my  pocket-book.” 

Kit  told  him,  and  the  old  gentleman 
wrote  down  the  address  with  his  pencil. 
He  had  scarcely  done  so,  when  there 
was  a great  uproar  in  the  street ; and 
the  old  lady,  hurrying  to  the  window, 
cried  that  Whisker  had  run  away,  upon 
which  Kit  darted  out  to  the  rescue,  and 
the  others  followed. 

It  seemed  that  Mr.  Chuckster  had 
been  standing  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  looking  carelessly  at  the  pony, 
and  occasionally  insulting  him  with 
such  admonitions  as,  “Stand  still,”  — 
“Be  quiet,”  — “Woa-a-a,”  and  the  like, 
which  by  a pony  of  spirit  cannot  be 
borne.  Consequently,  the  pony  being 
deterred  by  no  considerations  of  duty 
or  obedience,  and  not  having  before 
him  the  slightest  fear  of  the  human  eye, 
had  at  length  started  off,  and  was  at 
that  moment  rattling  down  the  street, 
— Mr.  Chuckster,  with  his  hat  off  and 
a pen  behind  his  ear,  hanging  on  in  the 
rear  of  the  chaise,  and  making  futile  at- 
tempts to  draw  it  the  other  way,  to  the 
unspeakable  admiration  of  all  behold- 
ers. Even  in  running  away,  however, 
Whisker  was  perverse,  for  he  had  not 
gone  very  far  when  he  suddenly  stopped, 
and,  before  assistance  could  be  rendered, 
commenced  backing  at  nearly  as  quick 
a pace  as  he  had  gone  forward.  By 
these  means  Mr.  Chuckster  was  pushed 
and  hustled  to  the  office  again  in  a most 
inglorious  manner,  and  arrived  in  a 
state  of  great  exhaustion  and  discom- 
fiture. 

The  old  lady  then  stepped  into  her 
seat,  and  Mr.  Abel  (whom  they  had 
come  to  fetch)  into  his.  The  old  gen- 
tleman, after  reasoning  with  the  pony 
on  the  extreme  impropriety  of  his  con- 
duct, and  making  the  best  amends  in 
his  power  to  Mr.  Chuckster,  took  his 
place  also,  and  they  drove  away,  wav- 
ing a farewell  to  the  notary  and  his 
clerk,  and  more  than  once  turning  to 
nod  kindly  to  Kit  as  he  watched  them 
frqm  the  road. 


98 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Kit  turned  away  and  very  soon  forgot 
the  pony,  and  the  chaise,  and  the  little 
old  lady,  and  the  little  old  gentleman, 
and  the  little  young  gentleman  to  boot, 
in  thinking  what  could  have  become  of 
his  late  master  and  his  lovely  grand- 
child, who  were  the  fountain-head  of  all 
his  meditations.  Still  casting  about  for 
some  plausible  means  of  accounting  for 
their  non -appearance,  and  of  persuading 
himself  that  they  must  soon  return,  he 
bent  his  steps  towards  home,  intending 
to  finish  the  task  which  the  sudden  rec- 
ollection of  his  contract  had  interrupted, 
and  then  to  sally  forth  once  more  to 
seek  his  fortune  for  the  day. 

When  he  came  to  the  comer  of  the 
court  in  which  he  lived,  lo  and  behold, 
there  was  the  pony  again  ! Yes,  there 
he  was,  looking  more  obstinate  than 
ever  ; and  alone  in  the  chaise,  keeping 
a steady  watch  upon  his  every  wink, 
sat  Mr.  Abel,  who,  lifting  up  his  eyes  by 
chance  and  seeing  Kit  pass  by,  nodded 
to  him  as  though  he  would  have  nodded 
his  head  off. 

Kit  wondered  to  see  the  pony  again, 
so  near  his  own  home  too,  but  it  never 
occurred  to  him  for  what  purpose  the 
pony  might  have  come  there,  or  where 
the  old  lady  and  the  old  gentleman  had 
gone,  until  he  lifted  the  latch  of  the 
door,  and  walking  in,  found  them  seated 
in  the  room  in  conversation  with  his 
mother,  at  which  unexpected  sight  he 
ulled  off  his  hat  and  made  his  best 
ow  in  some  confusion. 

“We  are  here  before  you,  you  see, 
Christopher,”  said  Mr.  Garland,  smiling. 

“ Yes,  sir,”  said  Kit ; and  as  he  said 
it,  he  looked  towards  his  mother  for  an 
explanation  of  the  visit. 

“ The  gentleman  ’s  been  kind  enough, 
my  dear,”  said  she,  in  reply  to  this 
mute  interrogation,  “to  ask  me  whether 
you  were  in  a good  place,  or  in  any 
place  at  all ; and  when  I told  him  no, 
you  were  not  in  any,  he  was  so  good  as 
to  say  that  — ” 

“ That  we  wanted  a good  lad  in  our 
house,”  said  the  old  gentleman  and  the 
old  lady  both  together,  “ and  that  per- 
haps we  might  think  of  it,  if  we  found 
everything  as  we  would  wish  it  to  be.’* 


As  this  thinking  of  it  plainly  meant 
the  thinking  of  engaging  Kit,  he  imme- 
diately partook  of  his  mother’s  anxiety 
and  fell  into  a great  flutter ; for  the 
little  old  couple  were  very  methodical 
and  cautious,  and  asked  so  many  ques- 
tions that  he  began  to  be  afraid  there 
was  no  chance  of  his  success. 

“You  see,  my  good  woman,”  said 
Mrs.  Garland  to  Kit’s  mother,  “ that 
it ’s  necessary  to  be  very  careful  and 
particular  in  such  a matter  as  this,  for 
we  ’re  only  three  in  family,  and  are  very 
quiet,  regular  folks,  and  it  would  be  a 
sad  thing  if  we  made  any  kind  of  mis- 
take, and  found  things  different  from 
what  we  hoped  and  expected.” 

To  this  Kit’s  mother  replied,  that 
certainly  it  was  quite  true,  and  quite 
right,  and  quite  proper,  and  Heaven 
forbid  that  she  should  shrink,  or  have 
cause  to  shrink,  from  any  inquiry  into 
her  character  or  that  of  her  son,  who 
was  a very  good  son,  though  she  was 
his  mother,  in  which  respect,  she  was 
bold  to  say,  he  took  after  his  father, 
who  was  not  only  a good  son  to  his 
mother,  but  the  best  of  husbands  and 
the  best  of  fathers  besides,  which  Kit 
could  and  would  corroborate,  she  knew, 
and  so  w'ould  little  Jacob  and  the  baby 
likewise  if  they  were  old  enough,  which 
unfortunately  they  were  not,  though,  as 
they  did  n’t  know  what  a loss  they  had 
had,  perhaps  it  was  a great  deal  better 
that  they  should  be  as  young  as  they 
were  ; and  so  Kit] s mother  wound  up 
a long  story  by  wiping  her  eyes  with  her 
apron,  and  patting  little  Jacob’s  head, 
who  was  rocking  the  cradle  and  staring 
with  all  his  might  at  the  strange  lady 
and  gentleman. 

When  Kit’s  mother  had  done  speak- 
ing, the  old  lady  struck  in  again,  and 
said  that  she  was  quite  sure  she  was  a 
very  honest  and  very  respectable  per- 
son, or  she  never  would  have  expressed 
herself  in  that  manner,  and  that  cer- 
tainly the  appearance  of  the  children 
and  the  cleanliness  of  the  house  de- 
served great  praise  and  did  her  the 
utmost  credit,  whereat  Kit’s  mother 
dropped  a courtesy  and  became  con- 
soled. Then  the  good  woman  entered 
into  a long  and  minute  account  of  Kit’s 
life  and  history  from  the  earliest  period 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


99 


down  to  that  time,  not  omitting  to  make 
mention  of  his  miraculous  fall  out  of  a 
back-parlor  window,  when  an  infant  of 
tender  years,  or  his  uncommon  sutfer- 
ings  in  a state  of  measles,  which  were 
illustrated  by  correct  imitations  of  the 
plaintive  manner  in  which  he  called  for 
toast  and  water,  day  and  night,  and 
said,  “ Don’t  cry,  mother,  I shall  soon 
be  better”;  for  proof  of  which  state- 
ments reference  was  made  to  Mrs. 
Green,  lodger,  at  the  cheesemonger’s 
round  the  corner,  and  divers  other 
ladies  and  gentlemen  in  various  parts 
of  England  and  Wales  (and  one  Mr. 
Brown,  who  was  supposed  to  be  then 
a corporal  in  the  East  Indies,  and  who 
could,  of  course,  be  found  with  very  lit- 
tle trouble),  within  whose  personal 
knowledge  the  circumstances  had  oc- 
curred. This  narration  ended,  Mr; 
Garland  put  some  questions  to  Kit  re- 
specting his  qualifications  and  general 
acquirements,  while  Mrs.  Garland  no- 
ticed the  children,  and  hearing  from 
Kit’s  mother  certain  remarkable  cir- 
cumstances which  had  attended  the 
birth  of  each,  related  certain  other 
remarkable  circumstances  which  had 
attended  the  birth  of  her  own  son,  Mr. 
Abel,  from  which  it  appeared  that  both 
Kit’s  mother  and  herself  had  been, 
above  and  beyond  all  other  women  of 
what  condition  or  age  soever,  peculiar- 
ly hemmed  in  with  perils  and  dangers. 
Lastly,  inquiry  was  made  into  the  nature 
and  extent  of  Kit’s  wardrobe,  and,  a 
small  advance  being  made  to  improve 
the  same,  he  was  formally  hired  at  an 
annual  income  of  Six  Pounds,  over  and 
above  his  board  and  lodging,  by  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Garland,  of  Abel  Cottage, 
Finchley. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  which 
party  appeared  most  pleased  with  this 
arrangement,  the  conclusion  of  which 
was  hailed  with  nothing  but  pleasant 
looks  and  cheerful  smiles  on  both  sides. 
It  was  settled  that  Kit  should  repair  to 
his  new  abode  on  the  nex^  day  but  one, 
in  the  morning;  and  finally,  the  little 
old  couple,  after  bestowing  a bright 
half-crown  on  little  Jacob,  and  another 
on  the  baby,  took  their  leaves  ; being 
escorted  as  far  as  the  street  by  their 
new  attendant,  who  held  the  obdurate 


pony  by  the  bridle  while  they  took 
their  seats,  and  saw  them  drive  away 
with  a lightened  heart. 

“Well,  mother,”  said  Kit,  hurrying 
back  into  the  house,  “ I think  my  for- 
tune ’s  about  made  now.” 

“ I should  think  it  was  indeed,  Kit,” 
rejoined  his  mother.  “ Six  pound  a 
year  ! Only  think  ! ” 

“ Ah  ! ” said  Kit,  trying  to  maintain 
the  gravity  which  the  consideration  of 
such  a sum  demanded,  but  grinning 
with  delight  in  spite  of  himself.  “There’s 
a property  ! ” 

Kit  drew  a long  breath  when  he  had 
said  this,  and  putting  his  hands  deep 
into  his  pockets,  as  if  there  were  one 
ear’s  wages  at  least  in  each,  looked  at 
is  mother,  as  though  he  saw  through 
her,  and  down  an  immense  perspective 
of  sovereigns  beyond. 

“ Please  God  we  ’ll  make  such  a lady 
of  you  for  Sundays,  mother  ! such  a 
scholar  of  Jacob,  such  a child  of  the 
baby,  such  a room  of  the  one  up  stairs ! 
Six  pound  a year  ! ” 

“ Hem  ! ” croaked  a strange  voice. 
“What’s  that  about  six  pound  a year? 
What  about  six  pound  a year?”  And 
as  the  voice  made  this  inquiry,  Daniel 
Quilp  walked  in  with  Richard  Swiveller 
at  his  heels. 

“ Who  said  he  was  to  have  six  pound 
a year?”  said  Quilp,  looking  sharply 
round.  “Did  the  old  man  say  it,  or 
did  little  Nell  say  it?  And  what’s  he 
to  have  it  for,  and  where  are  they, 
eh?” 

The  good  woman  was  so  much  alarmed 
by  the  sudden  apparition  of  this  un- 
known piece  of  ugliness,  that  she 
hastily  caught  the  baby  from  its  cradle 
and  retreated  into  the  farthest  corner 
of  the  room ; while  little  Jacob,  sitting 
upon  his  stool  with  his  hands  on  his 
knees,  looked  full  at  him  in  a species  of 
fascination,  roaring  lustily  all  the  time. 
Richard  Swiveller  took  an  easy  obser- 
vation of  the  family  over  Mr.  Quilp’s 
head,  and  Quilp  himself,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  smiled  in  an  exquisite 
enjoyment  of  the  commotion  he  occa- 
sioned. 

“ Don’t  be  frightened,  mistress,”  said 
Quilp,  after  a pause.  “Your  son 
knows  me;  I don’t  eat  babies;  I don’t 


IOO 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


like  ’em.  It  will  be  as  well  to  stop  that 
young  screamer,  though,  in  case  I should 
be  tempted  to  do  him  a mischief, 
Holloa,  sir!  Will  you  be  quiet?” 

Little  Jacob  stemmed  the  course  of 
two  tears  which  he  was  squeezing  out 
of  his  eyes,  and  instantly  subsided  into 
a silent  horror. 

“ Mind  you  don’t  break  out  again, 
you  villain,”  said  Quilp,  looking  stern- 
ly at  him,  “or  I ’ll  make  faces  at  you 
and  throw  you  into  fits,  I will.  Now, 
you  sir,  why  have  n’t  you  been  to  me  as 
you  promised  ? ” 

“ What  should  I come  for  ? ” retorted 
Kit.  “ I hadn’t  any  business  with  you, 
no  more  than  you  had  with  me.” 

“ Here,  mistress,”  said  Quilp,  turning 
quickly  away,  and  appealing  from  Kit 
to  his  mother.  “When  did  his  old 
master  come  or  send  here  last  ? Is  he 
here  now?  If  not,  where ’s  he  gone?  ” 

“ He  has  not  been  here  at  all,”  she 
replied.  “ I wish  we  knew  where  they 
have  gone,  for  it  would  make  my  son  a 
good  deal  easier  in  his  mind,  and  me  too. 
If  you  ’re  the  gentleman  named  Mr. 
Quilp,  I should  have  thought  you ’d 
have  known,  and  so  I told  him  only 
this  very  day.” 

“ Humph  ! ” muttered  Quilp,  evi- 
dently disappointed  to  believe  that  this 
was  true.  “That’s  what  you  tell  this 
gentleman  too,  is  it?” 

“ If  the  gentleman  comes  to  ask  the 
same  question,  I can’t  tell  him  anything 
else,  sir;  and  I only  wish  I could,  for 
our  own  sakes,”  was  the  reply. 

Quilp  glanced  at  Richard  Swiveller, 
and  observed  that,  having  met  him  on 
the  threshold,  he  assumed  that  he  had 
come  in  search  of  some  intelligence  of 
the  fugitives.  He  supposed  he  was 
right  ? 

“Yes,”  said  Dick,  “that  was  the 
object  of  the  present  expedition.  I 
fancied  it  possible  — but  let  us  go  ring 
fancy’s  knell,  /’ll  begin  it.” 

“You  seem  disappointed,”  observed 
Quilp. 

“A  baffler,  sir,  a baffler,  that’s  all,” 
returned  Dick.  “ I have  entered  upon 
a speculation  which  has  proved  a baf- 
fler ; and  a Being  of  brightness  and 
beauty  will  be  offered  up  a sacrifice  at 
Cheggs’s  altar.  That’s  all,  sir.” 


The  dwarf  eyed  Richard  with  a 
sarcastic  smile,  but  Richard,  who  had 
been  taking  a rather  strong  lunch  with 
a friend,  observed  him  not,  and  contin- 
ued to  deplore  his  fate  with  mournful 
and  despondent  looks.  Quilp  plainly 
discerned  that  there  was  some  secret 
reason  for  this  visit  and  his  uncommon 
disappointment,  and,  in  the  hope  there 
might  be  means  of  mischief  lurking 
beneath  it,  resolved  to  worm  it  out. 
He  had  no  sooner  adopted  this  resolu- 
tion, than  he  conveyed  as  much  honesty 
into  his  face  as  it  was  capable  of  express- 
ing, and  sympathized  with  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler exceedingly. 

“I’m  disappointed  myself,”  said 
Quilp,  “out  of  mere  friendly  feeling  for 
them ; but  you  have  real  reasons,  pri- 
vate reasons  I have  no  doubt,  for  your 
disappointment,  and  therefore  it  comes 
heavier  than  mine.” 

“ Why,  of  course  it  does,”  Dick 
observed  testily. 

“Upon  my  word,  I ’m  very  sorry, 
very  sorry.  I ’m  rather  cast  down  my- 
self. As  we  are  companions  in  adver- 
sity, shall  we  be  companions  in  the  sur- 
est way  of  forgetting  it  ? If  you  had  no 
particular  business,  now,  to  lead  you  in 
another  direction,”  urged  Quilp,  pluck- 
ing him  by  the  sleeve,  and  looking  sly- 
ly up  into  his  face  out  of  the  corners 
of  his  eyes,  “ there  is  a house  by  the 
water-side  where  they  have  some  of 
the  noblest  Schiedam  — reputed  to  be 
smuggled,  but  that ’s  between  ourselves 
— that  can  be  got  in  all  the  world. 
The  landlord  knows  me.  There ’s  a 
little  summer-house  overlooking  the 
river,  where  we  might  take  a glass  of 
this  delicious  liquor  with  a whiff  of  the 
best  tobacco,  — it ’s  in  this  case,  and  of 
the  rarest  quality,  to  my  certain  knowl- 
edge, — and  be  perfectly  snug  and 
happy,  could  we  possibly  contrive  it ; 
or  is  ther^  any  very  particular  engage- 
ment that  peremptorily  takes  you  an- 
other way,  Mr.  Swiveller,  eh  ? ” 

As  the  dwarf  spoke,  Dick’s  face  re- 
laxed into  a compliant  smile,  and  his 
eyebrows  slowly  unbent.  By  the  time 
he  had  finished,  Dick  was  looking  down 
at  Quilp  in  the  same  sly  manner  as 
Quilp  was  looking  up  at  him,  and  there 
remained  nothing  more  to  be  done  but 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


to  set  out  for  the  house  in  question. 
This  they  did  straightway.  The  mo- 
ment their  backs  were  turned,  little 
Jacob  thawed,  and  resumed  his  crying 
from  the  point  where  Quilp  had  frozen 
him. 

The  summer-house  of  which  Mr. 
Quilp  had  spoken  was  a rugged  wooden 
box,  rotten  and  bare  to  see,  which  over- 
hung the  river’s  mud,  and  threatened 
to  slide  down  into  it.  The  tavern  to 
which  it  belonged  was  a crazy  building, 
sapped  and  undermined  by  the  rats, 
and  only  upheld  by  great  bars  of  wood 
which  were  reared  against  its  walls,  and 
had  propped  it  up  so  long  that  even  they 
were  decaying  and  yielding  with  their 
load,  and  of  a windy  night  might  be 
heard  to  creak  and  crack  as  if  the  whole 
fabric  were  about  to  come  toppling 
down.  The  house  stood  — if  anything 
so  old  and  feeble  could  be  said  to  stand 
— on  a piece  of  waste  ground,  blighted 
with  the  unwholesome  smoke  of  facto- 
ry chimneys,  and  echoing  the  clank  of 
iron  wheels  and  rush  of  troubled  water. 
Its  internal  accommodations  amply 
fulfilled  the  promise  of  the  outside. 
The  rooms  were  low  and  damp,  the 
clammy  walls  were  pierced  with  chinks 
and  holes,  the  rotten  floors  had  sunk 
from  their  level,  the  very  beams  started 
from  their  places  and  warned  the  timid 
stranger  from  their  neighborhood. 

To  this  inviting  spot,  entreating  him 
to  observe  its  beauties  as  they  passed 
along,  Mr.  Quilp  led  Richard  Swiveller, 
and  on  the  table  of  the  summer-house, 
scored  deep  with  many  a gallows  and 
initial  letter,  there  soon  appeared  a 
wooden  keg,  full  of  the  vaunted  liquor. 
Drawing  it  off  into  the  glasses  with  the 
skill  of  a practised  hand,  and  mixing  it 
with  about  a third  part  of  water,  Mr. 
Quilp  assigned  to  Richard  Swiveller 
his  portion,  and,  lighting  his  pipe  from 
an  end  of  a candle  in  a very  old  and 
battered  lantern,  drew  himself  together 
upon  a seat  and  puffed  away. 

“ Is  it  good  ? ” said  Quilp,  as  Richard 
Swiveller  smacked  his  lips.  “ Is  it  strong 
and  fiery?  Does  it  make  you  wink, 
and  choke,  and  your  eyes  water,  and 
your  breath  come  short,  — does  it  ? ” 

“Does  it?”  cried  Dick,  throwing 
away  part  of  the  contents  of  his  glass, 


iox 

and  filling  it  up  with  water.  “ Why, 
man,  you  don’t  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
drink  such  fire  as  this  ? ” 

“ No  ! ” rejoined  Quilp.  “ Not  drink 
it ! Look  here.  And  here.  And  here, 
again.  Not  drink  it !” 

As  he  spoke,  Daniel  Quilp  drew  off 
and  drank  three  small  glassfuls  of  the 
raw  spirit,  and  then  with  a horrible 
grimace  took  a great  many  pulls  at  his 
pipe,  and,  swallowing  the  smoke,  dis- 
charged it  in  a heavy  cloud  from  his 
nose.  This  feat  accomplished,  he  drew 
himself  together  in  his  former  position, 
and  laughed  excessively. 

“Give  us  a toast!”  cried  Quilp, 
rattling  on  the  table  in  a dexterous 
manner  with  his  fist  and  elbow  alter- 
nately, in  a kind  of  tune.  “A  woman,  a 
beauty.  Let’s  have  a beauty  for  our 
toast,  and  empty  our  glasses  to  the  last 
drop.  Her  name,  come  ! ” 

“If  you  want  a name,”  said  Dick, 
“here ’s  Sophy  Wackles.” 

“ Sophy  Wackles,”  screamed  the 
dwarf.  “Miss  Sophy  Wackles  that  is, 
Mrs.  Richard  Swiveller  that  shall  be,  — 
that  shall  be.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! ” 

“ Ah  ! ” said  Dick,  “ you  might  have 
said  that  a few  weeks  ago,  but  it  won’t 
do  now,  my  buck.  Immolating  herself 
upon  the  shrine  of  Cheggs  — ” 

“ Poison  Cheggs,  cut  Cheggs’s  ears 
off,”  rejoined  Quilp.  “ I won’t  hear  of 
Cheggs.  Her  name  is  Swiveller  or 
nothing.  I ’ll  drink  her  health  again, 
and  her  father’s,  and  her  mother’s,  and 
to  all  her  sisters  and  brothers,  — the 
glorious  family  of  the  Wackleses  ; all 
the  Wackleses  in  one  glass.  Down  with 
it  to  the  dregs  ! ” 

“ Well,”  said  Richard  Swiveller, 
stopping  short  in  the  act  of  raising  the 
glass  to  his  lips  and  looking  at  the 
dwarf  in  a species  of  stupor  as  he 
flourished  his  arms  and  legs  about ; 
“you’re  a jolly  fellow,  but  of  all  the 
jolly  fellows  I ever  saw  or  heard  of,  you 
have  the  queerest  and  most  extraordi- 
nary way  with  you,  upon  my  life  you 
have.” 

This  candid  declaration  tended  rather 
to  increase  than  restrain  Mr.  Quilp’s 
eccentricities ; and  Richard  Swiveller, 
astonished  to  see  him  in  such  a roister- 
ing vein,  and  drinking  not  a little  him- 


102 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


self,  for  company,  began  imperceptibly 
to  become  more  companionable  and 
confiding,  so  that,  being  judiciously  led 
on  by  Mr.  Quilp,  he  grew  at  last  very 
confiding  indeed.  Having  once  got 
him  into  this  mood,  and  knowing  now 
the  key-note  to  strike  whenever  he  was 
at  a loss,  Daniel  Quilp’s  task  was  com-* 
paratively  an  easy  one,  and  he  was  soon 
in  possession  of  the  whole  details  of  the 
scheme  contrived  between  the  easy  Dick 
and  his  more  designing  friend. 

“Stop!”  said  Quilp.  “That’s  the 
thing,  that’s  the  thing.  It  can  be 
brought  about ; it  shall  be  brought 
about.  There’s  my  hand  upon  it;  I’m 
your  friend  from  this  minute.” 

“ What ! do  you  think  there ’s  still  a 
chance?  ” inquired  Dick,  in  surprise  at 
this  encouragement. 

“ A chance  ! ” echoed  the  dwarf,  “ a 
certainty ! Sophy  Wackles  may  be- 
come a Cheggs  or  anything  else  she 
likes,  but  not  a Swiveller.  O you  lucky 
dog ! He ’s  richer  than  any  Jew  alive  ; 
you  ’re  a made  man.  I see  in  you  now 
nothing  but  Nelly’s  husband,  rolling  in 
gold  and  silver.  I ’ll  help  you.  It  shall 
be  done.  Mind  my  words,  it  shall  be 
done.” 

“ But  how?”  said  Dick. 

“There’s  plenty  of  time,”  rejoined 
the  dwarf,  “ and  it  shall  be  done. 
We  ’ll  sit  down  and  talk  it  over  again 
all  the  way  through.  Fill  your  glass 
while  I ’m  gone.  I shall  be  back  di- 
rectly, directly.” 

With  these  hasty  words,  Daniel  Quilp 
withdrew  into  a dismantled  skittle- 
ground  behind  the  public-house,  and, 
throwing  himself  upon  the  ground,  actu- 
ally screamed  and  rolled  about  in  un- 
controllable delight. 

“ Here ’s  sport  ! ” he  cried,  — “ sport 
ready  to  my  hand,  all  invented  and  ar- 
ranged, and  only  to  be  enjoyed.  It  was 
this  shallow-pated  fellow  who  made  my 
bones  ache  t’other  day,  was  it  ? It  was 
his  friend  and  fellow-plotter,  Mr.  Trent, 
that  once  made  eyes  at  Mrs.  Quilp,  and 
leered  and  looked,  was  it  ? After  labor- 
ing for  two  or  three  years  in  their  pre- 
cious scheme,  to  find  that  they’ve  got  a 
beggar  at  last,  and  one  of  them  tied  for 
life.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! He  shall  marry  Nell. 
He  shall  have  her,  and  I ’ll  be  the  first 


man,  when  the  knot ’s  tied  hard  and 
.fast,  to  tell  ’em  what  they ’ve  gained, 
and  what  I ’ve  helped  ’em  to.  Here 
will  be  a clearing  of  old  scores  ; here  will 
be  a time  to  remind  ’em  what  a capital 
friend  I was,  and  how  I helped  ’em  to 
the  heiress.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ” 

In  the  height  of  his  ecstasy,  Mr. 
Quilp  had  like  to  have  met  with  a disa- 
greeable check,  for,  rolling  very  near  a 
broken  dog-kennel,  there  leapt  forth  a 
large  fierce  dog,  who,  but  that  his  chain 
was  of  the  shortest,  would  have  given 
him  a disagreeable  salute.  As  it  was, 
the  dwarf  remained  upon  his  back  in 
erfect  safety,  taunting  the  dog  with 
ideous  faces,  and  triumphing  over  him 
in  his  inability  to  advance  another  inch, 
though  there  were  not  a couple  of  feet 
between  them. 

“Why  don’t  you  come  and  bite  me? 
why  don’t  you  come  and  tear  me  to 
pieces,  you  coward?”  said  Quilp,  hiss- 
ing, and  worrying  the  animal  till  he  was 
nearly  mad.  “You  ’re  afraid,  you  bully  ; 
you  ’re  afraid,  you  know  you  are.” 

The  dog  tore  and  strained  at  his  chain 
with  starting  eyes  and  furious  bark,  but 
there  the  dwarf  lay,  snapping  his  fingers 
with  gestures  of  defiance  and  contempt. 
When  he  had  sufficiently  recovered 
from  his  delight,  he  rose,  and,  with  his 
arms  akimbo,  achieved  a kind  of  de- 
mon-dance round  the  kennel,  just  with- 
out the  limits  of  the  chain,  driving  the 
dog  quite  wild.  Having  by  this  means 
composed  his  spirits  and  put  himself  in 
a pleasant  train,  he  returned  to  his  un- 
suspicious companion,  whom  he  found 
looking  at  the  tide  with  exceeding  grav- 
ity, and  thinking  of  that  same  gold  and 
silver  which  Mr.  Quilp  had  mentioned. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

The  remainder  of  that  day  and  the 
whole  of  the  next  were  a busy  time  for 
the  Nubbles  family,  to  whom  every- 
thing connected  with  Kit’s  outfit  and 
departure  was  matter  of  as  great  mo- 
ment as  if  he  had  been  about  to  pene- 
trate into  the  interior  of  Africa,  or  to 
take  a cruise  round  the  world.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  suppose  that  there 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


103 


ever  was  a box  which  was  opened  and 
shut  so  many  times  within  four-and- 
twenty  hours  as  that  which  contained 
his  wardrobe  and  necessaries  ; and,  cer- 
tainly there  never  was  one  which  to 
two  small  eyes  presented  such  a mine 
of  clothing  as  this  mighty  chest,  with 
its  three  shirts  and  proportionate  al- 
lowance of  stockings  and  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, disclosed  to  the  astonished 
vision  of  little  Jacob.  At  last  it  was 
conveyed  to  the  carrier’s,  at  whose 
house,  at  Finchley,  Kit  was  to  find  it 
next  day ; and,  the  box  being  gone, 
there  remained  but  two  questions  for 
consideration,  — firstly,  whether  the  car- 
rier would  lose,  or  dishonestly  feign  to 
lose,  the  box  upon  the  road ; and,  sec- 
ondly, whether  Kit’s  mother  perfectly 
understood  how  to  take  care  of  herself 
in  the  absence  of  her  son. 

“I  don’t  think  there ’s  hardly  a chance 
of  his  really  losing  it,  but  carriers  are 
under  great  temptation  to  pretend  they 
lose  things,  no  doubt,”  said  Mrs.  Nub- 
bles, apprehensively,  in  reference  to  the 
first  point. 

“ No  doubt  about  it,”  returned  Kit, 
with  a serious  look  ; “ upon  my  word, 
mother,  I don’t  think  it  was  right  to 
trust  it  to  itself.  Somebody  ought  to 
have  gone  with  it,  I ’m  afraid.” 

“ We  can’t  help  it  now,”  said  his 
mother  ; “ but  it  was  foolish  and  wrong. 
People  ought  n’t  to  be  tempted.” 

Kit  inwardly  resolved  that  he  would 
never  tempt  a carrier  any  more,  save 
with  an  empty  box ; and,  having  formed 
this  Christian  determination,  he  turned 
his  thoughts  to  the  second  question. 

“ You  know  you  must  keep  up  your 
spirits,  mother,  and  not  be  lonesome 
because  I ’m  not  at  home.  I shall  very 
often  be  able  to  look  in  when  I come 
into  town  I dare  say,  and  I shall  send 
you  a letter  sometimes,  and  when  the 
quarter  comes  round,  I can  get  a holiday 
of  course  ; and  then  see  if  we  don’t  take 
little  Jacob  to  the  play,  and  let  him 
know  what  oysters  means.” 

“ I hope  plays  may  n’t  be  sinful,  Kit, 
but  I ’m  a’most  afraid,”  said  Mrs. 
Nubbles. 

“ I know  who  has  been  putting  that 
in  your  head,”  rejoined  her  son,  discon- 
solately; “that’s  Little  Bethel  again. 


Now  I say,  mother,  pray  don’t  take  to 
going  there  regularly,  for  if  I was  to 
see  your  good-humored  face,  that  has 
always  made  home  cheerful,  turned  into 
a grievous  one,  and  the  baby  trained 
to  look  grievous  too,  and  to  call  itself  a 
young  sinner  (bless  its  heart)  and  a 
child  of  the  Devil  (which  is  calling  its 
dead  father  names),  — if  I was  to  see 
this,  and  see  little  Jacob  looking  griev- 
ous likewise,  I should  so  take  it  to 
heart  that  I ’m  sure  I should  go  and 
’list  for  a soldier,  and  run  my  head  on 
purpose  against  the  first  cannon-ball  I 
saw  coming  my  way.” 

“O  Kit,  don’t  talk  like  that.” 

“ I would  indeed,  mother  ; and  unless 
you  want  to  make  me  feel  very  wretched 
and  uncomfortable,  you  ’ll  keep  that 
bow  on  your  bonnet,  which  you  ’d  more 
than  half  a mind  to  pull  off  last  week. 
Can  you  suppose  there ’s  any  harm  in 
looking  as  cheerful  and  being  as  cheer- 
ful as  our  poor  circumstances  will  per- 
mit ? Do  I see  anything  in  the  way 
I ’m  made  w'hich  calls  upon  me  to  be 
a snivelling,  solemn,  whispering  chap, 
sneaking  about  as  if  I could  n’t  help  it, 
and  expressing  myself  in  a most  un- 
pleasant snuffle  ? On  the  contrairy, 
don’t  I see  every  reason  why  I should 
n’t?  Just  hear  this!  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Ain’t  that  as  nat’ral  as  walking,  and  as 
good  for  the  health  ? Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
Ain’t  that  as  nat’ral  as  a sheep’s  bleat- 
ing, or  a pig’s  grunting,  or  a horse’s 
neighing,  or  a bird’s  singing?  Ha,  ha, 
ha  ! Is  n’t  it,  mother?  ” 

There  was  something  contagious  in 
Kit’s  laugh,  for  his  mother,  who  had 
looked  grave  before,  first  subsided  into 
a smile,  and  then  fell  to  joining  in  it 
heartily,  which  occasioned  Kit  to  say 
that  he  knew  it  was  natural,  and  to 
laugh  the  more.  Kit  and  his  mother, 
laughing  together  in  a pretty  loud  key, 
w*oke  the  baby,  w'ho,  finding  that  there 
was  something  very  jovial  and  agree- 
able in  progress,  was  no  sooner  in  its 
mother’s  arms  than  it  began  to  kick 
and  laugh  most  vigorously.  This  new 
illustration  of  his  argument  so  tickled 
Kit  that  he  fell  backward  in  his  chair 
in  a state  of  exhaustion,  pointing  at 
the  baby  and  shaking  his  sides  till  he 
rocked  again.  After  recovering  twice 


104 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


or  thrice,  and  as  often  relapsing,  he 
wiped  his  eyes  and  said  grace  ; and  a 
very  cheerful  meal  their  scanty  supper 
was. 

With  more  kisses  and  hugs  and 
tears  than  many  young  gentlemen  who 
start  upon  their  travels,  and  leave 
well-stocked  homes  behind  them,  would 
deem  within  the  bounds  of  probability 
(if  matter  so  low  could  be  herein  set 
down),  Kit  left  the  house  at  an  early 
hour  next  morning,  and  set  out  to  walk 
to  Finchley;  feeling  a sufficient  pride 
in  his  appearance  to  have  warranted 
his  excommunication  from  Little  Bethel 
from  that  time  forth,  if  he  had  ever  been 
one  of  that  mournful  congregation. 

Lest  anybody  should  feel  a curiosity 
to  know  how  Kit  was  clad,  it  may  be 
briefly  remarked  that  he  wore  no  liv- 
ery, but  was  dressed  in  a coat  of  pep- 
per-and-salt with  waistcoat  of  canary 
color,  and  nether  garments  of  iron- 
gray  ; besides  these  glories,  he  shone 
in  the  lustre  of  a new  pair  of  boots  and 
an  extremely  stiff  and  shiny  hat,  which, 
on  being  struck  anywhere  with  the 
knuckles,  sounded  like  a drum.  And  in 
this  attire  rather  wondering  that  he  at- 
tracted so  little  attention,  and  attribut- 
ing the  circumstance  to  the  insensibility 
of  those  who  got  up  early,  he  made  his 
way  towards  Abel  Cottage. 

Without  encountering  any  more  re- 
markable adventure  on  the  road  than 
meeting  a lad  in  a brimless  hat,  the  ex- 
act counterpart  of  his  old  one,  on  whom 
he  bestowed  half  the  sixpence  he  pos- 
sessed, Kit  arrived  in  course  of  time  at 
the  carrier’s  house,  where,  to  the  last- 
ing honor  of  human  nature,  he  found 
the  box  in  safety.  Receiving  from  the 
wife  of  this  immaculate  man  a direc- 
tion to  Mr.  Garland’s,  he  took  the  box 
upon  his  shoulder  and  repaired  thither 
directly. 

To  be  sure,  it  was  a beautiful  little 
cottage  with  a thatched  roof  and  little 
spires  at  the  gable-ends,  and  pieces  of 
stained  glass  in  some  of  the  windows, 
almost  as  large  as  pocket-books.  On 
one  side  of  the  house  was  a little  sta- 
ble, just  the  size  for  the  pony,  with  a 
little  room  over  it,  just  the  size  for  Kit. 
White  curtains  were  fluttering,  and  birds, 
in  cages  that  looked  as  bright  as  if  they 


were  made  of  gold,  were  singing  at  the 
windows ; plants  were  arranged  on 
either  side  of  the  path,  and  clustered 
about  the  door  ; and  the  garden  was 
bright  with  flowers  in  full  bloom,  which 
shed  a sweet  odor  all  round,  and  had 
a charming  and  elegant  appearance. 
Everything,  within  the  house  and  with- 
out, seemed  to  be  the  perfection  of 
neatness  and  order.  In  the  garden 
there  was  not  a weed  to  be  seen,  and, 
to  judge  from  some  dapper  gardening- 
tools,  a basket,  and  a pair  of  gloves 
which  were  lying  in  one  of  the  walks, 
old  Mr.  Garland  had  been  at  work  in  it 
that  very  morning. 

Kit  looked  about  him,  and  admired, 
and  looked  again,  and  this  a great  many 
times  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind 
to  turn  his  head  another  way  and  ring 
the  bell.  There  was  abundance  of  time 
to  look  about  him  again,  though,  when 
he  had  rung  it,  for  nobody  came  ; so,  af- 
ter ringing  twice  or  thrice,  he  sat  down 
upon  his  box  and  waited. 

He  rung  the  bell  a great  many  times, 
and  yet  nobody  came.  But  at  last,  as 
he  was  sitting  upon  the  box,  thinking 
about  giants’  castles,  and  princesses 
tied  up  to  pegs  by  the  hair  of  their 
heads,  and  dragons  bursting  out  from 
behind  gates,  and  other  incidents  of  the 
like  nature,  common  in  story-books  to 
youths  of  low  degree  on  their  first  visit 
to  strange  houses,  the  door  was  gently 
opened,  and  a little  servant-girl,  very 
tidy,  modest,  and  demure,  but  very 
pretty  too,  appeared. 

“ I suppose  you’re  Christopher,  sir,” 
said  the  servant-girl.  Kit  got  off  the 
box,  and  said  yes,  he  was. 

‘‘I’m  afraid  you  ’ve  rung  a good 
many  times,  perhaps,”  she  rejoined ; 
“but  w'e  could  n’t  hear  you,  because 
we ’ve  been  catching  the  pony.” 

Kit  rather  wondered  what  this  meant, 
but  as  he  could  n’t  stop  there,  asking 
questions,  he  shouldered  the  box  again, 
and  followed  the  girl  into  the  hall, 
where,  through  a back  door,  he  de- 
scried Mr.  Garland  leading  Whisket 
in  triumph  up  the  garden,  after  that 
self-willed  pony  had  (as  he  afterwards 
learned)  dodged  the  family  round  a small 
paddock  in  the  rear,  for  one  hour  and 
three  quarters. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


The  old  gentleman  received  him  very 
kindly,  and  so  did  the  old  lady,  whose 
previous  good  opinion  of  him  was  great- 
ly enhanced  by  his  wiping  his  boots  on 
the  mat  until  the  soles  of  his  feet  burnt 
again.  He  was  then  taken  into  the 
pai*lor  to  be  inspected  in  his  new 
clothes;  and  when  he  had  been  sur- 
veyed several  times,  and  had  afforded  by 
his  appearance  unlimited  satisfaction, 
he  was  taken  into  the  stable  (where 
the  pony  received  him  with  uncommon 
complaisance)  ; and  thence  into  the  lit- 
tle chamber  he  had  already  observed, 
which  was  very  clean  and  comfortable  ; 
and  thence  into  the  garden,  in  which  the 
old  gentleman  told  him  he  would  be 
taught  to  employ  himself,  and  where  he 
told  him,  besides,  what  great  things  he 
meant  to  do  to  make  him  comfortable 
and  happy,  if  he  found  he  deserved  it. 
All  these  kindnesses  Kit  acknowledged 
with  various  expressions  of  gratitude, 
and  so  many  touches  of  the  new  hat 
that  the  brim  suffered  considerably. 
When  the  old  gentleman  had  said  all 
he  had  to  say  in  the  way  of  promise  and 
advice,  and  Kit  had  said  all  he  had  to 
say  in  the  way  of  assurance  and  thank- 
fulness, he  «vvas  handed  over  again  to 
the  old  lady,  who,  summoning  the  little 
servant-girl  (whose  name  was  Barbara), 
instructed  her  to  take  him  down  stairs 
and  give  him  something  to  eat  and 
drink,  after  his  walk. 

Down  stairs,  therefore,  Kit  went ; 
and  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  there 
was  such  a kitchen  as  was  never  before 
seen  or  heard  of  out  of  a toy-shop  win- 
dow, with  everything  in  it  as  bright  and 
glowing,  and  as  precisely  ordered  too, 
as  Barbara  herself.  And  in  this  kitch- 
en Kit  sat  himself  down  at  a table  as 
white  as  a tablecloth,  to  eat  cold  meat, 
and  drink  small  ale,  and  use  his  knife 
and  fork  the  more  awkwardly,  because 
there  was  an  unknown  Barbara  looking 
on  and  observing  him. 

It  did  not  appear,  however,  that 
there  was  anything  remarkably  tremen- 
dous about  this  strange  Barbara,  who, 
having  lived  a very  quiet  life,  blushed 
very  much,  and  was  quite  as  embar- 
rassed and  uncertain  what  she  ought 
to  say  or  do  as  Kit  could  possibly  be. 
When  he  had  sat  for  some  little  time, 


105 

attentive  to  the  ticking  of  the  sober 
clock,  he  ventured  to  glance  curiously 
at  the  dresser,  and  there,  among 
the  plates  and  dishes,  were  Bar- 
bara’s littk  work-box  with  a sliding 
lid  to  shut  in  the  balls  of  cotton,  and 
Barbara’s  prayer-book,  and  Barbara’s 
hymn-book,  and  Barbara’s  Bible.  Bar- 
bara’s little  looking-glass  hung  in  a 
good  light  near  the  window,  and  Bar- 
bara’s bonnet  was  on  a nail  behind  the 
door.  F rom  all  these  mute  signs  and  to- 
kens of  herpresence,he  naturallyglanced 
at  Barbara  herself,  who  sat  as  mute  as 
they,  shelling  peas  into  a dish  ; and  just 
when  Kit  was  looking  at  her  eyelashes 
and  wondering  — quite  in  the  simplicity 
of  his  heart  — what  color  her  eyes  might 
be,  it  perversely  happened  that  Barbara 
raised  her  head  a little  to  look  at  him, 
when  both  pair  of  eyes  were  hastily 
withdrawn,  and  Kit  leant  over  his 
plate,  and  Barbara  over  her  pea-shells, 
each  in  extreme  confusion  at  having 
been  detected  by  the  other. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Mr.  Richard  Swiveller,  wending 
homewards  from  the  Wilderness  (for 
such  was  the  appropriate  name  of 
Quilp’s  choice  retreat),  after  a sinuous 
and  corkscrew  fashion,  with  many 
checks  and  stumbles ; after  stopping 
suddenly  and  staring  about  him,  then 
as  suddenly  running  forward  for  a few 
paces,  and  as  suddenly  halting  again 
and  shaking  his  head ; doing  everything 
with  a jerk,  and  nothing  by  premedita- 
tion, — Mr.  Richard  Swiveller,  wending 
his  way  homewards  after  this  fashron, 
which  is  considered  by  evil-minded  men 
to  be  symbolical  of  intoxication,  and  is 
not  held  by  such  persons  to  denote  that 
state  of  deep  wisdom  and  reflection  in 
which  the  actor  knows  himself  to  be, 
began  to  think  that  possibly  he  had 
misplaced  his  confidence,  and  that  the 
dwarf  might  not  be  precisely  the  sort  of 
person  to  whom  to  intrust  a secret  of 
such  delicacy  and  importance.  And 
being  led  and  tempted  on  by  this  re- 
morseful thought  into  a condition  which 
the  evil-minded  class  before  referred  to 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


106 

would  term  the  maudlin  state  or  stage 
of  drunkenness,  it  occurred  to  Mr. 
Swiveller  to  cast  his  hat  upon  the 
ground,  and  moan,  crying  aloud  that  he 
was  an  unhappy  orphan,  and  that  if  he 
had  not  been  an  unhappy  orphan,  things 
had  never  come  to  this. 

“Left  an  infant  by  my  parents,  at  an 
early  age,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  bewail- 
ing his  hard  lot,  “cast  upon  the  world 
in  my  tenderest  period,  and  thrown  up- 
on the  mercies  of  a deluding  dwarf,  who 
can  wonder  at  my  weakness  ! Here ’s 
a miserable  orphan  for  you.  Here,” 
said  Mr.  Swiveller,  raising  his  voice  to 
a high  pitch,  and  looking  sleepily  round, 
“ is  a miserable  orphan  ! ” 

“ Then,”  said  somebody  hard  by, 
“let  me  be  a father  to  you.” 

Mr.  Swiveller  swayed  himself  to  and 
fro  to  preserve  his  balance,  and,  looking 
into  a kind  of  haze  which  seemed  to 
surround  him,  at  last  perceived  two 
eyes  dimly  twinkling  through  the  mist, 
which  he  observed  after  a short  time 
were  in  the  neighborhood  of  a nose  and 
mouth.  Casting  his  eyes  down  towards 
that  quarter  in  which,  with  reference  to 
a man’s  face,  his  legs  are  usually  to  be 
found,  he  observed  that  the  face  had 
a body  attached  ; and  when  he  looked 
more  intently,  he  was  satisfied  that  the 
person  was  Mr.  Quilp,  who  indeed  had 
been  in  his  company  all  the  time,  but 
whom  he  had  some  vague  idea  of  hav- 
ing left  a mile  or  two  behind. 

“You  have  deceived  an  orphan,  sir,” 
said  Mr.  Swiveller,  solemnly. 

“I  ! I ’m  a second  father  to  you,” 
replied  Quilp. 

“ You  my  father,  sir  ! ” retorted  Dick. 
“ Being  all  right  myself,  sir,  I request  to 
be  left  alone,  — instantly,  sir.” 

“What  a funny  fellow  you  are!” 
cried  Quilp. 

“Go,  sir,”  returned  Dick,  leaning 
against  a post  and  waving  his  hand. 
“Go,  deceiver,  go.  Some  day,  sir, 
p’r’aps  you  ’ll  waken  from  pleasure’s 
dream,  to  know  the  grief  of  orphans  for- 
saken. Will  you  go,  sir.” 

The  dwarf  taking  no  heed  of  this  ad- 
juration, Mr.  Swiveller  advanced  with 
the  view  of  inflicting  upon  him  condign 
chastisement.  But  forgetting  his  pur- 
pose or  changing  his  mind  before  he 


came  close  to  him,  he  seized  his  hand 
and  vowed  eternal  friendship,  declaring 
with  an  agreeable  frankness  that  from 
that  time  forth  they  were  brothers  in 
everything  but  personal  appearance. 
Then  he  told  his  secret  all  over  again, 
with  the  addition  of  being  pathetic  on 
the  subject  of  Miss  Wackles,  who,  he 
gave  Mr.  Quilp  to  understand,  was  the 
occasion  of  any  slight  incoherency  he 
might  observe  in  his  speech  at  that  mo- 
ment, which  was  attributable  solely  to 
the  strength, of  his  affection,  and  not  to 
rosy  wine  or  other  fermented  liquor. 
And  then  they  went  on  arm-in-arm  very 
lovingly  together. 

“ I ’m  as  sharp,”  said  Quilp  to  him  at 
parting,  — “as  sharp  as  a ferret,  and  as 
cunning  as  a weasel.  You  bring  Trent 
to  me  ; assure  him  that  I ’m  his  friend, 
though  I fear  he  a little  distrusts  me  (I 
don’t  know  why,  I have  not  deserved 
it ) ; and  you ’ve  both  of  you  made  your 
fortunes  — in  perspective.” 

“That’s  the  worst  of  it,”  returned 
Dick.  “ These  fortunes  in  perspective 
look  such  a long  way  off.” 

“ But  they  look  smaller  than  they 
really  are,  on  that  account,”  said  Quilp, 
pressing  his  arm.  “You  fll  have  no 
conception  of  the  value  of  your  prize 
until  you  draw  close  to  it.  Mark  that.” 
“ D’  ye  think  not  ? ” said  Dick. 

“ Ay,  I do  ; and  I am  certain  of  what 
I say,  that ’s  better,”  returned  the  dwarf. 
“You  bring  Trent  to  me.  Tell  him 
I am  his  friend  and  yours,  — why 
shouldn’t  I be?” 

“There’s  no  reason  why  you  shouldn’t, 
certainly,”  replied  Dick,  “and  perhaps 
there  are  a great  many  why  you  should  ; 
at  least  there  would  be  nothing  strange 
in  your  wanting  to  be  my  friend,  if  you 
were  a choice  spirit,  but  then  you  know 
you  ’re  not  a choice  spirit.” 

“ I not  a choice  spirit  ! ” cried  Quilp. 
“ Devil  a bit,  sir,”  returned  Dick.  “ A 
man  of  your  appearance  could  n’t  be. 
If  you’re  any  spirit  at  all,  sir,  you’re 
an  evil  spirit.  Choice  spirits,”  added 
Dick,  smiting  himself  on  the  breast, 
“ are  quite  a different  looking  sort  of 
people,  you  may  take  your  oath  of  that, 
sir.” 

Quilp  glanced  at  his  free-spoken  friend 
with  a mingled  expression  of  cunning 


"HE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


107 


and  dislike,  and,  wringing  his  hand  al- 
most at  the  same  moment,  declared  that 
he  was  an  uncommon  character  and  had 
his  warmest  esteem.  With  that  they 
parted,  — Mr.  Swiveller  to  make  the  best 
of  his  way  home  and  sleep  himself  so- 
ber ; and  Quilp  to  cogitate  upon  the 
discovery  he  had  made,  and  exult  in  the 
prospect  of  the  rich  field  of  enjoyment 
and  reprisal  it  opened  to  him. 

It  was  not  without  great  reluctance 
and  misgiving  that  Mr.  Swiveller,  next 
morning,  his  head  racked  by  the  fumes 
of  the  renowned  Schiedam,  repaired  to 
the  lodging  of  his  friend  Trent  (which 
was  in  the  roof  of  an  old  house  in  an 
old  ghostly  inn),  and  recounted  by  very 
slow  degrees  what  had  yesterday  taken 
place  between  him  and  Quilp.  Nor 
was  it  without  great  surprise  and  much 
speculation  on  Quilp’s  probable  mo- 
tives, nor  without  many  bitter  com- 
ments on  Dick  Swiveller’s  folly,  that 
his  friend  received  the  tale. 

“ I don’t  defend  myself,  Fred,”  said 
the  penitent  Richard;  “but  the  fellow 
has  such  a queer  way  with  him,  and  is 
such  an  artful  dog,  that  first  of  all  he  set 
me  upon  thinking  whether  there  was 
any  harm  in  telling  him,  and  while  I 
was  thinking,  screwed  it  out  of  me.  If 
you  had  seen  him  drink  and  smoke,  as 
I did,  you  could  n’t  have  kept  anything 
from  him.  He ’s  a Salamander,  you 
know,  that ’s  what  he  is.” 

Without  inquiring  whether  Salaman- 
ders were  of  necessity  good  confidential 
agents,  or  whether  a fire-proof  man  was, 
as  a matter  of  course,  trustworthy,  Fred- 
erick Trent  threw  himself  into  a chair, 
and,  burying  his  head  in  his  hands,  en- 
deavored to  fathom  the  motives  which 
had  led  Quilp  to  insinuate  himself  into 
Richard  Swiveller’s  confidence  ; for  that 
the  disclosure  was  of  his  seeking  and 
had  not  been  spontaneously  revealed  by 
Dick,  was  sufficiently  plain' from  Quilp’s 
seeking  his  company  and  enticing  him 
away. 

The  dwarf  had  twice  encountered  him 
when  he  was  endeavoring  to  obtain  in- 
telligence of  the  fugitives.  This,  per- 
haps, as  he  had  not  shown  any  previous 
anxiety  about  them,  was  enough  to 
awaken  suspicion  in  the  breast  of  a 
creature  so  jealous  and  distrustful  by 


nature,  setting  aside  any  additional  im- 
pulse to  curiosity  that  he  might  have 
derived  from  Dick’s  incautious  man- 
ner. But  knowing  the  scheme  they  had 
planned,  why  should  he  offer  to  assist 
it?  This  was  a question  more  difficult 
of  solution  ; but  as  knaves  generally 
overreach  themselves  by  imputing  their 
own  designs  to  others,  the  idea  im- 
mediately presented  itself  that  some  cir- 
cumstances of  irritation  between  Quilp 
and  the  old  man,  arising  out  of  their 
secret  transactions,  and  not  unconnect- 
ed perhaps  with  his  sudden  disappear- 
ance, now  rendered  the  former  desirous 
of  revenging  himself  upon  him  by  seek- 
ing to  entrap  the  sole  object  ofthis  love 
and  anxiety  into  a connection  of  which 
he  knew  he  had  a dread  and  hatred. 
As  Frederick  Trent  himself,  utterly  re- 
gardless of  his  sister,  had  this  object  at 
heart,  only  second  to  the  hope  of  gain, 
it  seemed  to  him  the  more  likely  to  be 
Quilp’s  main  principle  of  action.  Once 
investing  the  dwarf  with  a design  of  his 
own  in  abetting  them,  which  the  attain- 
ment of  their  purpose  would  serve,  it 
was  easy  to  believe  him  sincere  and 
hearty  in  the  cause  ; and  as  there  could 
be  no  doubt  of  his  proving  a powerful 
and  useful  auxiliary,  Trent  determined 
to  accept  his  invitation  and  go  to  his 
house  that  night,  and,  if  what  he  said 
and  did  confirmed  him  in  the  impression 
he  had  formed,  to  let  him  share  the  labor 
of  their  plan,  but  not  the  profit. 

Having  revolved  these  things  in  his 
mind  and  arrived  at  this  conclusion, 
he  communicated  to  Mr.  Swiveller  as 
much  of  his  meditations  as  he  thought 
proper  (Dick  would  have  been  perfectly 
satisfied  with  less),  and,  giving  him  the 
day  to  recover  himself  from  his  late  sal- 
amandering,  accompanied  him  at  even- 
ing to  Mr.  Quilp’s  house. 

Mightily  glad  Mr.  Quilp  was  to  see 
them,  or  mightily  glad  he  seemed  to 
be  ; and  fearfully  polite  Mr.  Quilp  was 
to  Mrs.  Quilp  and  Mrs.  J ini  win  ; and 
very  sharp  was  the  look  he  cast,  on  his 
wife  to  observe  how  she  was  affected  by 
the  recognition  of  young  Trent.  Mrs. 
Quilp  was  as  innocent  as  her  own 
mother  of  any  emotion,  painful  or  pleas- 
ant, which  the  sight  of  him  awakened, 
but  as  her  husband’s  glance  made  her 


io3 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


timid  and  confused,  and  uncertain  what 
to  do  or  what  was  required  of  her,  Mr. 
Quilp  did  not  fail  to  assign  her  embar- 
rassment to  the  cause  he  had  in  his 
mind,  and,  while  he  chuckled  at  his 
penetration,  was  secretly  exasperated 
by  his  jealousy. 

Nothing  of  this  appeared,  however. 
On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Quilp  was  all 
blandness  and  suavity,  and  presided 
over  the  case-bottle  of  rum  with  ex- 


traordinary open-heartedness. 

“ Why,  let  me  see,”  said  Quilp.  “It 
must  be  a matter  of  nearly  two^  years 
since  we  were  first  acquainted.” 

“Nearer  three,  I think,”  said  Trent. 
“ Ne2frer  three  ! ” cried  Quilp.  “ How 
fast  time  flies  ! Does  it  seem  as  long  as 
that  to  you,  Mrs.  Quilp?” 

“Yes,  I think  it  seems  full  three 
years,  Quilp,”  was  the  unfortunate  re- 
ply. “O,  indeed,  ma’am,”  thought 
Quilp,  “you  have  been  pining,  have 
you?  Very  good,  ma’am.” 

“It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday  that 
you  went  out  to  Demerara  in  the  Mary 
Anne,”  said  Quilp;  “but  yesterday,  I 
declare.  Well,  I like  a little  wildness. 
I was  wild  myself  once.’’ 

Mr.  Quilp  accompanied  this  admis- 
sion with  such  an  awful  wink,  indicative 
of  old  rovings  and  backslidings,  that 
Mrs.  Jiniwin  was  iridignant,  and  could 
not  forbear  from  remarking  under  her 
breath  that  he  might  at  least  put  oft  his 
confessions  until  his  wife  was  absent ; for 
which  act  of  boldness  and  insubordina- 
tion Mr.  Quilp  first  stared  her  out  of 
countenance,  and  then  drank  her  health 
ceremoniously. 

“ I thought  you ’d  come  back  di- 
rectly, Fred.  I always  thought  that,” 
said  Quilp,  setting  down  his  glass. 
“ And  when  the  Mary  Anne  returned 
with  you  on  board,  instead  of  a letter 
to  say  what  a contrite  heart  you  had, 
and  how  happy  you  were  in  the  situa- 
tion that  had  been  provided  for  you,  I 
was  amused,  exceedingly  amused.  Ha, 
ha,  ha  ! ” . 

The  young  man  smiled,  but  not  as 
though  the  theme  was  the  most  agree- 
able one  that  could  have  been  selected 
for  his  entertainment ; and  for  that  rea- 
son Quilp  pursued  it. 

“I  always  will  say,”  he  resumed, 


“ that  when  a rich  relation,  having  two 
young  people  — sisters  or  brothers,  or 
brother  and  sister  — dependent  on  him, 
attaches  himself  exclusively  to  one,  and 
casts  off  the  other,  he  does  wrong.” 

The  young  man  made  a movement 
of  impatience,  but  Quilp  went  on  as 
calmly  as  if  he  were  discussing  some 
abstract  question  in  which  nobody 
present  had  the  slightest  personal  in- 
terest. t 

“It’s  very  true,”  said  Quilp,  that 
your  grandfather  urged  repeated  for- 
giveness, ingratitude,  riot,  and  ex- 
travagance, and  all  that ; but,  as  I told 
him,  ‘ These  are  common  faults.’  ‘ But 
he’s  a scoundrel,’  said  he.  ‘Grant- 
ing that,’  said  I (for  the  sake  of  argu- 
ment, of  course),  ‘ a great  many  young 
noblemen  and  gentlemen  are  scoun- 
drels too!’  But  he  wouldn’t  be  con- 
vinced.” 

“ I wonder  at  that,  Mr.  Quilp,  said 
the  young  man,  sarcastically. 

“Well,  so  did  I at  the  time,”  re- 
turned Quilp,  “but  he  was  always,  ob- 
stinate. He  was  in  a manner  a friend 
of  mine,  but  he  was  always  obstinate 
and  w’rong-headed.  Little  Nell  is  a 
nice  girl,  a charming  girl,  but  you  ’re 
her  brother,  Frederick.  You’re  her 
brother,  after  all ; as  you  told  him  the 
last  time  you  met,  he  can’t  alter  that.’ 

“ He  would  if  he  could,  confound  him 
for  that  and  all  other  kindnesses,”  said 
the  young  man,  impatiently.  “But 
nothing  can  come  of  this  subject  now, 
and  let  us  have  done  with  it  in  the 
Devil’s  name.” 

“ Agreed,”  returned  Quilp,  — “ agreed 
on  my  part,  readily.  Why  have  I al- 
luded to  it?  Just  to  show  you,  Fred- 
erick, that  I have  always  stood  your 
friend.  You  little  knew  who  was  your 
friend  and  who  your  foe  ; now  did  you  ? 
You  thought  I was  against  you,  and 
so  there  has  been  a coolness  between 
us  ; but  it  was  all  on  your  side,  entirely 
on  your  side.  Let ’s  shake  hands  again, 
Fred.” 

With  his  head  sunk  down  between 
his  shoulders,  and  a hideous  grin  over- 
spreading his  face,  the  dwarf  stood  up 
and  stretched  his  short  arm  across  the 
table.  After  a moment’s  hesitation,  the 
young  man  stretched  out  his  to  meet 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


109 


it ; Quilp  clutched  his  fingers  in  a grip 
that  for  the  moment  stopped  the  cur- 
rent of  the  blood  within  them,  and, 
pressing  his  other  hand  upon  his  lip, 
and  frowning  towards  the  unsuspicious 
Richard,  released  them  and  sat  down. 

This  action  was  not  lost  upon  Trent, 
who,  knowing  that  Richard  Swiveller 
was  a mere  tool  in  his  hands,  and  knew 
no  more  of  his  designs  than  he  thought 
proper  to  communicate,  saw  that  the 
dwarf  perfectly  understood  their  rela- 
tive position,  and  fully  entered  into  the 
character  of  his  friend.  It  is  something 
to  be  appreciated,  even  in  knavery. 
This  silent  homage  to  his  superior 
abilities,  no  less  than  a sense  of  the 
power  with  which  the  dwarf’s  quick 
perception  had  already  invested  him, 
inclined  the  young  man  towards  that 
ugly  worthy,  and  determined  him  to 
profit  by  his  aid. 

It  being  now  Mr.  Quilp’s  cue  to 
change  the  subject  with  all  convenient 
expedition,  lest  Richard  Swiveller  in 
his  heedlessness  should  reveal  anything 
which  it  was  inexpedient  for  the  women 
to  know,  he  proposed  a game  at  four- 
handed  cribbage ; and  partners  being 
cut  for,  Mrs.  Quilp  fell  to  Frederick 
Trent,  and  Dick  himself  to  Quilp. 
Mrs.  Jiniwin,  being  very  fond  of  cards, 
was  carefully  excluded  by  her  son-in- 
law  from  any  participation  in  the  game, 
and  had  assigned  to  her  the  duty  of 
occasionally  replenishing  the  glasses 
from  the  case-bottle;  Mr.  Quilp  from 
that  moment  keeping  one  eye  constant- 
ly upon  her,  lest  she  should  by  any 
means  procure  a taste  of  the  same,  and 
thereby  tantalizing  the  wretched  old 
lady  (who  was  as  much  attached  to  the 
case-bottle  as  the  cards)  in  a double 
degree,  and  most  ingenious  manner. 

But  it  was  not  to  Mrs.  Jiniwin  alone 
that  Mr.  Quilp’s  attention  was  restrict- 
ed, as  several  other  matters  required  his 
constant  vigilance.  Among  his  various 
eccentric  habits  he  had  a humorous  one 
of  always  cheating  at  cards,  which  ren- 
dered necessary  on  his  part,  not  only  a 
close  observance  of  the  game,  and  a 
sleight  of  hand  in  counting  and  scoring, 
but  also  involved  the  constant  correc- 
tion, by  looks  and  frowns  and  kicks 
under  the  table,  of  Richard  Swiveller, 


who,  being  bewildered  by  the  rapidity 
with  which  his  cards  were  told  and  the 
rate  at  which  the  pegs  travelled  down 
the  board,  could  not  be  prevented  from 
sometimes  expressing  his  surprise  and 
incredulity.  Mrs.  Quilp  too  was  the 
partner  of  young  Trent,  and  for  every 
look  that  passed  between  them,  and 
every  word  they  spoke,  and  every  card 
they  played,  the  dwarf  had  eyes  and 
ears  ; not  occupied  alone  with  what  was 
passing  above  the  table,  but  with  sig- 
nals that  might  be  exchanging  beneath 
it,  which  he  laid  all  kinds  of  traps  to 
detect ; besides  often  treading  on  his 
wife’s  toes  to  see  whether  she  cried  out 
or  remained  silent  under  the  infliction, 
in  which  latter  case  it  would  have  been 
quite  clear  that  Trent  had  been  tread- 
ing on  her  toes  before.  Yet,  in  the 
midst  of  all  these  distractions,  the  one 
eye  was  upon  the  old  lady  always,  and 
if  she  so  much  as  stealthily  advanced  a 
teaspoon  towards  a neighboring  glass 
(which  she  often  did),  for  the  purpose 
of  abstracting  but  one  sup  of  its  sweet 
contents,  Quilp’s  hand  would  overset  it 
in  the  very  moment  of  her  triumph,  and 
Quilp’s  mocking  voice  implore  her  to 
regard  her  precious  health.  And  in 
any  one  of  these  his  many  cares,  from 
first  to  last,  Quilp  never  flagged  nor 
faltered. 

At  length,  when  they  had  played  a 
great  many  rubbers,  and  drawn  pretty 
freely  upon  the  case-bottle,  Mr.  Quilp 
warned  his  lady  to  retire  to  rest,  and 
that  submissive  wife  complying,  and 
being  followed  by  her  indignant  moth- 
er, Mr.  Swiveller  fell  asleep.  The 
dwarf  beckoning  his  remaining  com- 
anion  to  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
eld  a short  conference  with  him  in 
whispers. 

“ It ’s  as  well  not  to  say  more  than 
one  can  help  before  our  worthy  friend,” 
said  Quilp,  making  a grimace  towards 
the  slumbering  Dick.  “ Is  it  a bargain 
between  us,  Fred?  Shall  he  marry  lit- 
tle rosy  Nell  by  and  by  ? ” 

“You  have  some  end  of  your  own 
to  answer,  of  course,”  returned  the 
other. 

“Of  course  I have,  dear  Fred,”  said 
Quilp,  grinning  to  think  how  little  he 
suspected  what  the  real  end  was.  “ It ’s 


iio 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


retaliation  perhaps ; perhaps  whim.  I 
have  influence,  Fred,  to  help  or  oppose. 
Which  way  shall  I use  it  ? There  are 
a pair  of  scales,  and  it  goes  into  one.” 

“Throw  it  into  mine,  then,”  said 
•Trent. 

“It’s  done,  Fred,”  rejoined  Quilp, 
stretching  out  his  clenched  hand,  and 
opening  it  as  if  he  had  let  some  weight 
fall  out.  “It’s  in  the  scale  from  this 
time,  and  turns  it,  Fred.  Mind  that.” 

“Where  have  they  gone?”  asked 
Trent. 

Quilp  shook  his  head,  and  said  that 
point  remained  to  be  discovered,  which 
it  might  be,  easily.  When  it  was,  they 
would  begin  their  preliminary  advances. 
He  would  visit  the  old  man,  or  even 
Richard  Swiveller  might  visit  him,  and 
by  affecting  a deep  concern  in  his  be- 
half, and  imploring  him  to  settle  in 
some  worthy  home,  lead  to  the  child’s 
remembering  him  with  gratitude  and 
favor.  Once  impressed  to  this  extent, 
it  would  be  easy,  he  said,  to  win  her  in 
a year  or  two,  for  she  supposed  the  old 
man  to  be  poor,  as  it  was  a part  of  his 
jealous  policy  (in  common  with  many 
other  misers)  to  feign  to  be  so  to  those 
about  him. 

“He  has  feigned  it  often  enough  to 
me,  of  late,”  said  Trent. 

“ O,  and  to  me  too  ! ” replied  the 
dwarf.  “ Which  is  more  extraordinary, 
as  I know  how  rich  he  really  is.” 

“ I suppose  you  should,”  said  Trent. 

“ I think  I should,  indeed,”  rejoined 
the  dwarf ; and  in  that,  at  least,  he 
spoke  the  truth. 

After  a few  more  whispered  words, 
they  returned  to  the  table,  and  the 
young  man,  rousing  Richard  Swiveller, 
informed  him  that  he  was  waiting  to 
depart.  This  was  welcome  news  to 
Dick,  who  started  up  directly.  After  a 
few  words  of  confidence  in  the  result  of 
their  project  had  been  exchanged,  they 
bade  the  grinning  Quilp  good  night. 

Quilp  crept  to  the  window  as  they 
passed  in  the  street  below,  and  listened. 
Trent  was  pronouncing  an  encomium 
upon  his  wife,  and  they  were  both  won- 
dering by  what  enchantment  she  had 
been  brought  to  marry  such  a misshapen 
wretch  as  he.  The  dwarf,  after  watch- 
ing their  retreating  shadows  with  a 


wider  grin  than  his  face  had  yet  dis- 
played, stole  softly  in  the  dark  to  bed. 

In  this  hatching  of  their  scheme, 
neither  Trent  nor  Quilp  had  had  one 
thought  about  the  happiness  or  misery 
of  poor  innocent  Nell.  It  would  have 
been  strange  if  the  careless  profligate, 
who  was  the  butt  of  both,  had  been 
harassed  by  any  such  consideration ; 
for  his  high  opinion  of  his  own  merits 
and  deserts  rendered  the  project  rather 
a laudable  one  than  otherwise;  and  if 
he  had  been  visited  by  so  unwonted  a 
guest  as  reflection,  he  would  — being  a 
brute  only  in  the  gratification  of  his  ap- 
petites— have  soothed  his  conscience 
with  the  plea  that  he  did  not  mean  to 
beat  or  kill  his  wife,  and  would  there- 
fore, after  all  said  and  done,  be  a very 
tolerable  average  husband. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  quite  ex- 
hausted, and  could  no  longer  maintain 
the  pace  at  which  they  had  fled  from  the 
race-ground,  that  the  old  man  and  the 
child  ventured  to  stop,  and  sit  down  to 
rest  upon  the  borders  of  a little  wood. 
Here,  though  the  course  was  hidden 
from  their  view,  they  could  yet  faintly 
distinguish  the  noise  of  distant  shouts, 
the  hum  of  voices,  and  the  beating  of 
drums.  Climbing  the  eminence  which 
lay  between  them  and  the  spot  they  had 
left,  the  child  could  even  discern  the 
fluttering  flags  and  white  tops  of  booths  i 
but  no  person  was  approaching  towards 
them,  and  their  resting-place  was  soli- 
tary and  still. 

Some  time  elapsed  before  she  could 
reassure  her  trembling  companion,  or 
restore  him  to  a state  of  moderate 
tranquillity.  His  disordered  imagina- 
tion represented  to  him  a crowd  of 
persons  stealing  towards  them  beneath 
the  cover  of  the  bushes,  lurking  in 
every  ditch,  and  peeping  from  the 
boughs  of  every  rustling  tree.  He  was 
haunted  by  apprehensions  of  being  led 
captive  to  some  gloomy  place  where  he 
would  be  chained  and  scourged.,  and, 
worse  than  all,  where  Nell  could  neve* 
come  to  see  him,  save  through  iron 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


ii 


bars  and  gratings  in  the  wall.  His  ter- 
rors affected  the  child.  Separation 
from  her  grandfather  was  the  greatest 
evil  she  could  dread ; and,  feeling  for 
the  time  as  though,  go  where  they 
would,  they  were  to  be  hunted  down, 
and  could  never  be  safe  but  in  hiding, 
her  heart  failed  her,  and  her  courage 
drooped. 

In  one  so  young,  and  so  unused  to 
the  scenes  in  which  she  had  lately 
moved,  this  sinking  of  the  spirit  was 
not  surprising.  But  Nature  often  en- 
shrines gallant  and  noble  hearts  in  weak 
bosoms,  — oftenest,  God  bless  her,  in 
female  breasts,  — and  when  the  child, 
casting  her  tearful  eyes  upon  the  old 
man,  remembered  how  weak  he  was, 
and  how  destitute  and  helpless  he  would 
be  if  she  failed  him,  her  heart  swelled 
within  her,  and  animated  her  with  new 
strength  and  fortitude. 

“We  are  quite  safe  now,  and  have 
nothing  to  fear,  indeed,  dear  grandfa- 
ther,” she  said. 

“ Nothing  to  fear ! ” returned  the 
old  man.  “ Nothing  to  fear  if  they 
took  me  from  thee  ! Nothing  to  fear 
if  they  parted  us  ! Nobody  is  true 
to  me.  No,  not  one.  Not  even 
Nell  ! ” 

“Oh!  do  not  say  that,”  replied  the 
child,  “ for  if  ever  anybody  was  true  at 
heart,  and  earnest,  I am.  I am  sure 
you  know  I am.” 

“Then  how,”  said  the  old  man,  look- 
ing fearfully  round, — “ how  can  you  bear 
to  think  that  we  are  safe,  when  they  are 
searching  for  me  everywhere,  and  may 
come  here,  and  steal  upon  us,  even 
while  we’re  talking?” 

“ Because  I ’m  sure  we  have  not 
been  followed,”  said  the  child.  “ Judge 
for  yourself,  dear  grandfather ; look 
round  and  see  how  quiet  and  still  it  is. 
We  are  alone  together,  and  may  ram- 
ble where  we  like.  Not  safe  ! Could 
I feel  easy  — did  I feel  at  ease — when 
any  danger  threatened  you?  ” 

“True,  true,”  he  answered,  pressing 
her  hand,  but  still  looking  anxiously 
about.  “What  noise  was  that?” 

“ A bird,”  said  the  child,  “flying  in- 
to the  wood,  and  leading  the  way  for  us 
to  follow.  You  remember  that  we  said 
we  would  walk  in  woods  and  fields,  and 


by  the  side  of  rivers,  and  how  happy 
we  would  be,  — you  remember  that? 
But  here,  while  the  sun  shines  above 
our  heads,  and  everything  is  bright  and 
happy,  we  are  sitting  sadly  down,  and 
losing  time.  See  what  a pleasant  path  ; 
and  there ’s  the  bird,  — the  same  bird; 
now  he  flies  to  another  tree,  and  stays 
to  sing.  Come  ! ” 

When  they  rose  up  from  the  ground, 
and  took  the  shady  track  which  led 
them  through  the  wood,  she  bounded  on 
before,  printing  her  tiny  footsteps  in  the 
moss,  which  rose  elastic  from  so  light 
a pressure  and  gave  it  back  as  mir- 
rors throw  off  breath  ; and  thus  she 
lured  the  old  man  on,  with  many  a back- 
ward look  and  merry  beck,  now  point- 
ing stealthily  to  some  lone  bird  as  it 
perched  and  twittered  on  a branch  that 
strayed  across  their  path,  now  stopping 
to  listen  to  the  songs  that  broke  the 
happy  silence,  or  watch  the  sun  as  it 
trembled  through  the  leaves,  and,  steal- 
ing in  among  the  ivied  trunks  of  stout 
old  trees,  opened  long  paths  of  light.  As 
they  passed  onward,  parting  the  boughs 
that  clustered  in  their  way,  the  serenity 
which  th*e  child  had  first  assumed  stole 
into  her  breast  in  earnest.  The  old 
man  cast  no  longer  fearful  looks  behind, 
but  felt  at  ease,  and  cheerful ; for  the 
farther  they  passed  into  the  deep  green 
shade,  the  more  they  felt  that  the  tran- 
quil mind  of  God  was  there,  and  shed 
its  peace  on  them. 

At  length  the  path,  becoming  clearer 
and  less  intricate,  brought  them  to  the 
end  of  the  wood,  and  into  a public 
road.  Taking  their  way  along  it  for  a 
short  distance,  they  came  to  a lane,  so 
shaded  by  the  trees  on  either  hand  that 
they  met  together  overhead,  and  arched 
the  narrow  way.  A broken  finger-post 
announced  that  this  led  to  a village 
three  miles  off;  and  thither  they  re- 
solved to  bend  their  steps. 

The  miles  appeared  so  long  that 
they  sometimes  thought  they  must 
have  missed  their  road.  But  at  last, 
to  their  great  joy,  it  led  downward 
in  a steep  descent,  with  overhanging 
banks,  over  which  the  footpaths  led  ; 
and  the  clustered  houses  of  the  vil- 
lage peeped  from  the  woody  hollow 
below. 


112 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


It  was  a very  small  place.  The  men 
and  boys  were  playing  at  cricket  on  the 
green  ; and  as  the  other  folks  were  look- 
ing on,  they  wandered  up  and  down,  un- 
certain where  to  seek  a humble  lodging. 
There  was  but  one  old  man  in  the  little 
garden  before  his  cottage,  and  him  they 
were  timid  of  approaching,  for  he  was 
the  schoolmaster,  and  had  “School” 
written  up  over  his  window  in  black 
letters  on  a white  board.  He  was  a 
pale,  simple-looking  man,  of  a spare 
and  meagre  habit,  and  sat  among  his 
flowers  and  beehives,  smoking  his  pipe, 
in  the  little  porch  before  his  door. 

“ Speak  to  him,  dear,”  the  old  man 
whispered. 

“ I am  almost  afraid  to  disturb  him,” 
said  the  child,  timidly.  “ He  does  not 
seem  to  see  us.  Perhaps  if  we  wait  a 
little,  he  may  look  this  way.” 

They  waited,  but  the  schoolmaster 
cast  no  look  towards  them,  and  still 
sat  thoughtful  and  silent,  in  the  little 
porch.  He  had  a kind  face.  In  his 
plain  old  suit  of  black,  he  looked  pale 
and  meagre.  They  fancied,  too,  a lone- 
ly air  about  him  and  his  house,  but 
perhaps  that  was  because  the  other 
people  formed  a merry  company  upon 
the  green, , and  he  seemed  the  only  soli- 
tary man  in  all  the  place. 

They  were  very  tired  ; and  the  child 
would  have  been  bold  enough  to  address 
even  a schoolmaster,  but  for  something 
in  his  manner  which  seemed  to  denote 
that  he  was  uneasy  or  distressed.  As 
they  stood  hesitating  at  a little  distance, 
they  saw  that  he  sat  for  a few  minutes 
at  a time  like  one  in  a brown  study, 
then  laid  aside  his  pipe  and  took  a few 
turns  in  his  garden,  then  approached 
the  gate  and  looked  towards  the  green, 
then  took  up  his  pipe  again  with  a 
sigh,  and  sat  down  thoughtfully  as  be- 
fore. 

As  nobody  else  appeared  and  it  would 
soon  be  dark,  Nell  at  length  took  cour- 
age, and  when  he  had  resumed  his  pipe 
and  seat,  ventured  to  draw  near,  lead- 
ing her  grandfather  by  the  hand.  The 
slight  noise  they  made  in  raising  the 
latch  of  the  wicket-gate  caught  his  at- 
tention. He  looked  at  them  kindly,  but 
seemed  disappointed  too,  and  slightly 
shook  his  head. 


Nell  dropped  a courtesy,  and  told  him 
they  were  poor  travellers  who  sought  a 
shelter  for  the  night,  which  they. would 
gladly  pay  for,  so  far  as  their  means 
allowed.  The  schoolmaster  looked  ear- 
nestly at  her  as  she  spoke,  laid  aside 
his  pipe  and  rose  directly. 

# “ If  you  could  direct  us  anywhere, 
sir,”  said  the  child,  “ we  should  take  it 
very  kindly.” 

“ You  have  been  walking  a long  way,” 
said  the  schoolmaster. 

“ A long  way,  sir,”  the  child  re- 
plied. 

“ You  ’re  a young  traveller,  my  child,” 
he  said,  laying  his  hand  gently  on  her 
head.  “ Your  grandchild,  friend  ? ” 

“Ay,  sir,”  cried  the  old  man,  “and 
the  stay  and  comfort  of  my  life.” 

“ Come  in,”  said  the  schoolmaster. 

Without  further  preface  he  conducted 
them  into  his  little  schoolroom,  which 
w'as  parlor  and  kitchen  likewise,  and 
told  them  they  were  welcome  to  remain 
under  his  roof  till  morning.  Before 
they  had  done  thanking  him,  he  spread 
a coarse  white  cloth  upon  the  table, 
with  knives  and  platters  ; and,  bringing 
out  some  bread  and  cold  meat  and  a 
jug  of  beer,  besought  them  to  eat  and 
drink. 

The  child  looked  round  the  room  as 
she  took  her  seat.  There  were  a couple 
of  forms,  notched  and  cut  and  inked 
all  over ; a small  deal  desk  perched  on 
four  legs,  at  which  no  doubt  the  master 
sat ; a few  dog’s-eared  books  upon  a 
high  shelf ; and  beside  them  a motley 
collection  of  peg-tops,  balls,  kites,  fish- 
ing-lines, marbles,  half-eaten  apples, 
and  other  confiscated  property  of  idle 
urchins.  Displayed  on  hooks  upon  the 
wall,  in  all  their  terrors,  were  the  cane 
and  ruler ; and  near  them,  on  a small 
shelf  of  its  own,  the  dunce’s  cap,  made 
of  old  newspapers  and  decorated  with 
glaring  wafers  of  the  largest  size.  But 
the  great  ornaments  of  the  walls  were 
certain  moral  sentences,  fairly  copied  in 
good  round  text,  and  w'ell-worked  sums 
in  simple  addition  and  multiplication, 
evidently  achieved  by  the  same  hand, 
which  were  plentifully  pasted  all  round 
the  room  ; for  the  double  purpose,  as 
it  seemed,  of  bearing  testimony  to  the 
excellence  of  the  school,  and  kindling  a 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER, 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


113 


worthy  emulation  in  the  bosoms  of  the 
scholars. 

“Yes,”  said  the  old  schoolmaster, 
observing  that  her  attention  was  caught 
by  these  latter  specimens.  “ That ’s 
beautiful  writing,  my  dear.” 

“Very,  sir,”  replied  the  child)  modest- 
ly; “ is  it  yours  ? ” 

“ Mine  ! ” he  returned,  taking  out  his 
spectacles  and  putting  them  on  to  have 
a better  view  of  the  triumphs  so  dear  to 
his  heart.  “ / could  n’t  write  like  that, 
now-a-days.  No.  They  ’re  all  done  by 
Dne  hand  ; a little  hand  it  is,  not  so  old 
as  yours,  but  a very  clever  one.” 

As  the  schoolmaster  said  this,  he  saw 
that  a small  blot  of  ink  had  been  thrown 
on  one  of  the  copies,  so  he  took  a pen- 
knife from  his  pocket,  and,  going  up  to 
the  wall,  carefully  scraped  it  out.  When 
he  had  finished,  he  walked  slowly  back- 
ward from  the  writing,  admiring  it  as 
Dne  might  contemplate  a beautiful  pic- 
ture, but  with  something  of  sadness 
in  his  voice  and  manner  which  quite 
touched  the  child,  though  she  was  un- 
acquainted with  its  cause. 

“ A little  hand,  indeed,”  said  the  poor 
schoolmaster.  “ Far  beyond  all  his 
companions,  in  his  learning  and  his 
sports,  too,  how  did  he  ever  come  to  be 
so  fond  of  me  ! That  I should  love  him 
is  no  wonder,  but  that  he  should  love 
me  — ” and  there  the  schoolmaster 
stopped,  and  took  off  his  spectacles  to 
wipe  them,  as  though  they  had  grown 
dim. 

. “ I hope  there  is  nothing  the  matter, 
pir,”  said  Nell,  anxiously. 

“ Not  much,  my  dear,”  returned  the 
schoolmaster.  “ I hoped  to  have  seen 
him  on  the  green  to-night.  He  was  al- 
ways foremost  among  them.  But  he  ’ll 
be  there  to-morrow.” 

“ Has  he  been  ill  ? ” asked  the  child, 
with  a child’s  quick  sympathy. 

“ Not  very.  They  said  he  was  wan- 
dering in  his  head  yesterday,  dear  boy, 
and  so  they  said  the  day  before.  But 
that ’s  a part  of  that  kind  of  disorder ; 
it ’s  not  a bad  sign,  — not  at  all  a bad 
sign.” 

The  child  was  silent.  He  walked 
to  the  door,  and  looked  wistfully  out. 
The  shadows  of  night  were  gathering, 
and  all  was  still. 


“ If  he  could  lean  upon  anybody’s 
arm,  he  would  come  to  me,  I know,” 
he  said,  returning  into  the  room.  “ He 
always  came  into  the  garden  to  say 
ood  night.  But  perhaps  his  illness 
as  only  just  taken  a favorable  turn,  and 
it ’s  too  late  for  him  to  come  out,  for  it ’s 
very  damp,  and  there ’s  a heavy  dew. 
It’s  much  better  he  shouldn’t  come  to- 
night.” 

The  schoolmaster  lighted  a candle, 
fastened  the  window-shutter,  and  closed 
the  door.  But  after  he  had  done  this, 
and  sat  silent  a little  time,  he  took  down 
his  hat,  and  said  he  would  go  and  sat- 
isfy himself,  if  Nell  would  sit  up  till  he 
returned.  The  child  readily  complied, 
and  he  went  out. 

She  sat  there  half  an  hour  or  more, 
feeling  the  place  very  strange  and  lonely  ; 
for  she  had  prevailed  upon  the  old  man 
to  go  to  bed,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
be  heard  but  the  ticking  of  an  old  clock, 
and  the  whistling  of  the  wind  among 
the  trees.  When  he  returned,  he  took 
his  seat  in  the  chimney-corner,  but 
remained  silent  for  a long  time.  At 
length  he  turned  to  her,  and,  speaking 
very  gently,  hoped  she  would  say  a 
prayer  that  night  for  a sick  child. 

“My  favorite  scholar  ! ” said  the  poor 
schoolmaster,  smoking  a pipe  he  had 
forgotten  to  light,  and  looking  mourn- 
fully round  upon  the  walls.*  “It  is  a 
little  hand  to  have  done  all  that,  and 
waste  away  with  sickness.  It  is  a very, 
very  little  hand  ! ” 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

After  a sound  night’s  rest  in  a 
chamber  in  the  thatched  roof,  in  which 
it  seemed  the  sexton  had  for  some  years 
been  a lodger,  but  which  he  had  late- 
ly deserted  for  a wife  and  a cottage  of 
his  own,  the  child  rose  early  in  the 
morning,  and  descended  to  the  room 
where  she  had  supped  last  night.  As 
the  schoolmaster  had  already  left  his 
bed  and  gone  out,  she  bestirred  herself 
to  make  it  neat  and  comfortable,  and 
had  just  finished  its  arrangement  when 
the  kind  host  returned. 

He  thanked  her  many  times,  and  said 


3 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


114 


that  the  old  dame  who  usually  did  such 
offices  for  him  had  gone  to  nurse  the 
little  scholar  whom  he  had  told  her  of. 
The  child  asked  how  he  was,  and  hoped 
he  was  better. 

“ No,”  rejoined  the  schoolmaster, 
shaking  his  head  sorrowfully,  “ no  bet- 
ter. They  even  say  he  is  worse.” 

“ I am  very  sorry  for  that,  sir,”  said 
the  child. 

The  poor  schoolmaster  appeared  to 
be  gratified  by  her  earnest  manner,  but 
yet  rendered  more  uneasy  by  it,  for  he 
added  hastily  that  anxious  people  often 
magnified  an  evil  and  thought  it  greater 
than  it  was.  “ For  my  part,”  he  said, 
in  his  quiet,  patient  way,  “ I hope 
it’s  not  so.  I don’t  think  he  can  be 
worse.” 

The  child  asked  his  leave  to  prepare 
breakfast,  and,  her  grandfather  coming 
down  stairs,  they  all  three  partook  of  it 
together.  While  the  meal  was  in  prog- 
ress, their  host  remarked  that  the  old 
man  seemed  much  fatigued,  and  evi- 
dently stood  in  need  of  rest. 

“ If  the  journey  you  have  before  you 
is  a long  one,”  he  said,  “ and  don’t 
press  you  for  one  day,  you  ’re  very  wel- 
come to  pass  another  night  here.  I 
should  really  be  glad  if  you  would, 
friend.” 

He  saw  that  the  old  man  looked  at 
Nell,  uncertain  whether  to  accept  or 
decline  his  offer ; and  added,  — 

“ I shall  be  glad  to  have  your  young 
companion  with  me  for  one  day.  If 
you  can  do  a charity  to  a lone  man,  and 
rest  yourself  at  the  same  time,  do  so. 
If  you  must  proceed  upon  your  journey, 
I wish  you  well  through  it,  and  will 
walk  a little  way  with  you  before  school 
begins.” 

“ What  are  we  to  do,  Nell?  ” said  the 
old  man,  irresolutely  ; “ say  what  we  ’re 
to  do,  dear.” 

It  required  no  great  persuasion  to 
induce  the  child  to  answer  that  they 
had  better  accept  the  invitation  and 
remain.  She  was  happy  to  show  her 
gratitude  to  the  kind  schoolmaster  by 
busying  herself  in  the  performance  of 
such  household  duties  as  his  little  cot- 
tage stood  in  need  of.  When  these 
were  done,  she  took  some  needle-work 
from  her  basket,  and  sat  herself  down 


upon  a stool  beside  the  lattice,  where 
the  honeysuckle  and  woodbine  en- 
twined their  tender  stems,  and,  steal- 
ing into  the  room,  filled  it  with  their 
delicious  breath.  Her  grandfather  was 
basking  in  the  sun  outside,  breathing  the 
perfume  of  the  flowers,  and  idly  watch- 
ing the  clouds  as  they  floated  on  before 
the  light  summer  wind. 

As  the  schoolmaster,  after  arranging 
the  two  forms  in  due  order,  took  his 
seat  behind  his  desk  and  made  other 
preparations  for  school,  the  child  was 
apprehensive  that  she  might  be  in  the 
way,  and  offered  to  withdraw  to  her 
little  bedroom.  But  this  he  would  not 
allow,  and,  as  he  seemed  pleased  to 
have  her  there,  she  remained,  busying 
herself  with  her  work. 

“ Have  you  many  scholars,  sir?  ” she 
asked. 

The  poor  schoolmaster  shook  his 
head,  and  said  that  they  barely  filled 
the  two  forms. 

“Are  the  others  clever,  sir?”  asked 
the  child,  glancing  at  the  trophies  on 
the  wall. 

“Good  boys,”  returned  the  school- 
master, — “ good  boys  enough,  my  dear, 
but  they  ’ll  never  do  like  that.” 

A small  white-headed  boy  with  a sun- 
burnt face  appeared  at  the  door  while 
he  was  speaking,  and,  stopping  there  to 
make  a rustic  bow,  came  in  and  took 
his  seat  upon  one  of  the  forms.  The 
white-headed  boy  then  put  an  open 
book,  astonishingly  dog’s-eared,  upon 
his  knees,  and,  thrusting  his  hands  into 
his  pockets,  began  counting  the  mar- 
bles with  which  they  were  filled,  — dis- 
playing in  the  expression  of  his  face  a 
remarkable  capacity  of  totally  abstract- 
ing his  mind  from  the  spelling  on  which 
his  eyes  were  fixed.  Soon  afterwards 
another  white-headed  little  boy  came 
straggling  in,  and  after  him  a red-headed 
lad,  and  after  him  two  more  with  white 
heads,  and  then  one  with  a flaxen  poll, 
and  so  on  until  the  forms  were  occu- 
pied by  a dozen  boys  or  thereabouts, 
with  heads  of  every  color  but  gray,  and 
ranging  in  their  ages  from  four  years  old 
to  fourteen  years  or  more  ; for  the  legs 
of  the  youngest  were  a long  way  from 
the  floor  when  he  sat  upon  the  form, 
and  the  eldest  was  a heavy,  good-tem- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


pered,  foolish  fellow,  about  half  a head 
taller  than  the  schoolmaster. 

At  the  top  of  the  first  form  — the 
post  of  honor  in  the  school  — was  the 
vacant  place  of  the  little  sick  scholar, 
and  at  the  head  of  the  row  of  pegs  on 
which  those  who  came  in  hats  or  caps 
were  wont  to  hang  them  up,  one  was 
left  empty.  No  boy  attempted  to  vio- 
late the  sanctity  of  seat  or  peg,  but 
many  a one  looked  from  the  empty 
spaces  to  the  schoolmaster,  and  whis- 
pered his  idle  neighbor  behind  his 
hand. 

Then  began  the  hum  of  conning  over 
lessons  and  getting  them  by  heart,  the 
whispered  jest  and  stealthy  game,  and 
all  the  noise  and  drawl  of  school ; and 
in  the  midst  of  the  din  sat  the  poor 
schoolmaster,  the  very  image  of  meek- 
ness and  simplicity,  vainly  attempting  to 
fix  his  mind  upon  the  duties  of  the  day, 
and  to  forget  his  little  friend.  But  the 
tedium  of  his  office  reminded  him  more 
strongly  of  the  willing  scholar,  and  his 
thoughts  were  rambling  from  his  pupils, 
it  was  plain. 

None  knew  this  better  than  the  idlest 
boys,  who,  growing  bolder  with  impu- 
nity, waxed  louder  and  more  daring; 
playing  odd-or-even  under  the  master’s 
eye,  eating  apples  openly  and  without 
rebuke,  pinching  each  other  in  sport 
or  malice  without  the  least  reserve, 
and  cutting  their  autographs  in  the 
very  legs  of  his  desk.  The  puzzled 
dunce,  who  stood  beside  it  to  say  his 
lesson  out  of  book,  looked  no  longer 
at  the  ceiling  for  forgotten  words,  but 
drew  closer  to  the  master’s  elbow  and 
boldly  cast  his  eye  upon  the  page  ; the 
wag  of  the  little  troop  squinted  and 
made  grimaces  (at  the  smallest  boy  of 
course),  holding  no  book  before  his  face, 
and  his  approving  audience  knew  no 
constraint  in  their  delight.  If  the  mas- 
ter did  chance  to  rouse  himself  and 
seem  alive  to  what  was  going  on,  the 
noise  subsided  for  a moment,  and  no 
eyes  met  his  but  wore  a studious  and  a 
deeply  humble  look ; but  the  instant 
he  relapsed  again,  it  broke  out  afresh 
and  ten  times  louder  than  before. 

Oh  ! how  some  of  those  idle  fellows 
longed  to  be  outside,  and  how  they 
looked  at  the  open  door  and  window, 


lrS 

as  if  they  half  meditated  rushing  vio- 
lently out,  plunging  into  the  woods,  and 
being  wild  boys  and  savages  from  that 
time  forth.  What  rebellious  thoughts 
of  the  cool  river,  and  some  shady  bath- 
ing-place beneath  willow- trees  with 
branches  dipping  in  the  water,  kept 
tempting  and  urging  that  sturdy  boy, 
who,  with  his  shirt-collar  unbuttoned 
and  flung  back  as  far  as  it  could  go,  sat 
fanning  his  flushed  face  with  a spell- 
ing-book, wishing  himself  a whale,  or  a 
tittlebat,  or  a fly,  or  anything  but  a 
boy  at  school  on  that  hot  broiling  day  ! 
Heat ! ask  that  other  boy,  whose  seat, 
being  nearest  to  the  door,  gave  him 
opportunities  of  gliding  out  into  the 
garden  and  driving  his  companions  to 
madness  by  dipping  his  face  into  the 
bucket  of  the  well  and  then  rolling  on 
the  grass, — ask  him  if  there  were  ever 
such  a day  as  that,  when  even  the  bees 
were  diving  deep  down  into  the  cups 
of  flowers  and  stopping  there,  as  if 
they  had  made  up  their  minds  to  retire 
from  business  and  be  manufacturers  of 
honey  no  more.  The  day  was  made 
for  laziness,  and  lying  on  one’s  back 
in  green  places,  and  staring  at  the  sky 
till  its  brightness  forced  one  to  shut 
one’s  eyes  and  go  to  sleep ; and  was 
this  a time  to  be  poring  over  musty 
books  in  a dark  room,  slighted  by  the 
very  sun  itself?  Monstrous  ! 

Nell  sat  by  the  window  occupied  with 
her  work,  but  attentive  still  to  all  that 
passed,  though  sometimes  rather  timid 
of  the  boisterous  boys.  The  lessons 
over,  writing  time  began  ; and  there 
being  but  one  desk,  and  that  the  mas- 
ter’s, each  boy  sat  at  it  in  turn  and 
labored  at  his  crooked  copy,  while  the 
master  walked  about.  This  was  a qui- 
eter time ; for  he  would  come  and  look 
oyer  the  writer’s  shoulder,  and  tell 
him  mildly  to  observe  how  such  a let- 
ter was  turned  in  such  a copy  on  the 
wall,  praise  such  an  up-stroke  here 
and  such  a down-stroke  there,  and  bid 
him  take  it  for  his  model.  Then  he 
would  stop  and  tell  them  what  the 
sick  child  had  said  last  night,  and  how 
he  had  longed  to  be  among  them  once 
again  ; and  such  was  the  poor  school- 
master’s gentle  and  affectionate  man- 
ner, that  the  boys  seemed  quite  re- 


n6 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


morseful  that  they  had  worried  him  so 
much,  and  were  absolutely  quiet ; eat- 
ing no  apples,  cutting  no  names,  in- 
flicting no  pinches,  and  making  no  gri- 
maces, for  full  two  minutes  afterwards. 

“ I think,  boys,”  said  the  schoolmas- 
ter when  the  clock  struck  twelve,  “ that 
I shall  give  an  extra  half-holiday  this 
afternoon.” 

At  this  intelligence  the  boys,  led  on 
and  headed  by  the  tall  boy,  raised  a 
great  shout,  in  the  midst  of  which  the 
master  was  seen  to  speak,  but  could 
not  be  heard.  As  he  held  up  his 
hand,  however,  in  token  of  his  wish 
that  they  should  be  silent,  they  were 
considerate  enough  to  leave  off,  as  soon 
as  the  longest-winded  among  them  were 
quite  out  of  breath. 

“You  must  promise  me  first,”  said  the 
schoolmaster,  “ that  you  ’ll  not  be  noisy, 
or  at  least,  if  you  are,  that  you  ’ll  go 
away  and  be  so,  — away  out  of  the  vil- 
lage I mean.  I ’m  sure  you  would  n’t 
disturb  your  old  playmate  and  com- 
panion.” 

There  was  a general  murmur  (and 
perhaps  a very  sincere  one,  for  they 
were  but  boys)  in  the  negative  ; and 
the  tall  boy,  perhaps  as  sincerely  as 
any  of  them,  called  those  about  him 
to  witness  that  he  had  only  shouted  in 
a whisper. 

“ Then  pray  don’t  forget,  there ’s  my 
dear  scholars,”  said  the  schoolmaster, 
“ what  I have  asked  you,  and  do  it  as  a 
favor  to  me.  Be  as  happy  as  you  can, 
and  don’t  be  unmindful  that  you  are 
blessed  with  health.  Good  by,  all ! ” 

“ Thank  ’ee,  sir,”  and  “ Good  by,  sir,” 
were  said  a great  many  times  in  a varie- 
ty of  voices,  and  the  boys  went  out  very 
slowly  and  softly.  But  there  was  the 
sun  shining,  and  there  were  the  birds 
singing,  as  the  sun  only  shines  and 
the  birds  only  sing  on  holidays  and 
half-holidays ; there  were  the  trees 
waving  to  all  free  boys  to  climb  and 
nestle  among  their  leafy  branches  ; the 
hay,  entreating  them  to  come  and  scat- 
ter it  to  the  pure  air ; the  green  corn, 
gently  beckoning  towards  wood  and 
stream  ; the  smooth  ground,  rendered 
smoother  still  by  blending  lights  and 
shadows,  inviting  to  runs  and  leaps, 
^nd  long  walks  God  knows  whither. 


It  was  more  than  boy  could  bear, 
and  with  a joyous  whoop  the  whole 
cluster  took  to  their  heels  and  spread 
themselves  about,  shouting  and  laugh- 
ing as  they  went. 

“ It ’s  natural,  thank  Heaven  ! ” said 
the  poor  schoolmaster,  looking  after 
them.  “ I ’m  very  glad  they  did  n’t 
mind  me  ! ” 

It  is  difficult,  however,  to  please  every- 
body, as  most  of  us  would  have  discov- 
ered, even  without  the  fable  which  bears 
that  moral ; and  in  the  course  of  the 
afternoon  several  mothers  and  aunts  of 
pupils  looked  in  to  express  their  entire 
disapproval  of  the  schoolmaster’s  pro- 
ceeding. A few  confined  themselves  to 
hints,  such  as  politely  inquiring  what 
red-letter  day  or  saint’s  day  the  alma- 
nac said  it  was  ; a few  (these  were  the 
profound  village  politicians)  argued  that 
it  was  a slight  to  the  throne  and  an  af- 
front to  Church  and  State,  and  savored  of 
revolutionary  principles,  to  grant  a half- 
holiday upon  any  lighter  occasion  than 
the  birthday  of  the  monarch  ; but  the 
majority  expressed  their  displeasure  on 
private  grounds  and  in  plain  terms, 
arguing  that  to  put  the  pupils  on  this 
short  allowance  of  learning  w'as  nothing 
but  an  act  of  downright  robbery  and 
fraud  ; and  one  old  lady,  finding  that 
she  could  not  inflame  or  irritate  the 
peaceable  schoolmaster  by  talking  to 
him,  bounced  out  of  his  house  and 
talked  at  him  for  half  an  hour  outside 
his  owrn  wfindow',  to  another  old  lady, 
saying  that  of  course  he  would  deduct 
this  half-holiday  from  his  weekly  charge, 
or  of  course  he  w'ould  naturally  expect 
to  have  an  opposition  started  against 
him  ; there  was  no  want  of  idle  chaps 
in  that  neighborhood  (here  the  old  lady 
raised  her  voice),  and  some  chaps  who 
were  too  idle  even  to  be  schoolmasters, 
might  soon  find  that  there  were  other 
chaps  put  over  their  heads,  and  so  she 
would  have  thewi  take  care,  and  look 
pretty  sharp  about  them.  But  all  these 
taunts  and  vexations  failed  to  elicit  one 
word  from  the  meek  schoolmaster,  who 
sat  with  the  child  by  his  side,  — a little 
more  dejected  perhaps,  but  quite  silent 
and  uncomplaining. 

Towards  night  an  old  woman  came 
tottering  up  the  garden  as  speedily  as 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


117 


she  could,  and,  meeting  the  schoolmaster 
at  the  door,  said  he  was  to  go  to  Dame 
West’s  directly,  and  had  best  run  on 
before  her.  He  and  the  child  were  on 
the  point  of  going  out  together  for  a 
walk,  and  without  relinquishing  her 
hand,  the  schoolmaster  hurried  away, 
leaving  the  messenger  to  follow  as  she 
might. 

They  stopped  at  a cottage  door,  and— 
the  schoolmaster  knocked  softly  at  it 
with  his  hand.  It  was  opened  without 
loss  of  time.  They  entered  a room 
where  a little  group  of  women  were 
gathered  about  one,  older  than  the  rest, 
who  was  crying  very  bitterly,  and  sat 
wringing  her  hands  and  rocking  herself 
to  and  fro. 

“O  dame!”  said  the  schoolmaster, 
drawing  near  her  chair,  “is  it  so  bad  as 
this?  ” 

“He’s  going  fast,”  cried  the  old 
woman;  “ my  grandson ’s  dying.  It’s 
all  along  of  you.  You  shouldn’t  see 
him  now,  but  for  his  being  so  earnest 
on  it.  This  is  what  his  learning  has 
brought  him  to.  O dear,  dear,  dear, 
what  can  I do  ! ” 

“ Do  not  say  that  I am  in  any  fault,” 
urged  the  gentle  schoolmaster.  “ I am 
not  hurt,  dame.  No,  no.  You  are  in 
great  distress  of  rqind,  and  don’t  mean  ■ 
what  you  say.  I am  sure  you  don’t.” 

“I  do,”  returned  the  old  woman; 

“ I mean  it  all.  If  he  had  n’t  been  por- 
ing over  his  books  out  of  fear  of  you,  he 
would  have  been  well  and  merry  now,  I 
know  he  would.” 

The  schoolmaster  looked  round  upon 
the  other  women,  as  if  to  entreat  some 
one  among  them  to  say  a kind  word  for 
him,  but  they  shook  their  heads,  and 
murmured  to  each  other  that  they  never 
thought  there  was  muchgood  in  learning, 
and  that  this  convinced  them.  Without 
saying  a word  in  reply,  or  giving  them 
a look  of  reproach,  he  followed  the  old 
woman  who  had  summoned  him  (and 
who  had  now  rejoined  them)  into  an- 
other room,  where  his  infant  friend, 
half  dressed,  lay  stretched  upon  a bed. 

He  was  a very  young  boy,  quite  a 
little  child.  His  hair  still  hung  in  curls 
about  his  face,  and  his  eyes  were  very 
bright ; but  their  light  was  of  Heaven, 
not  earth.  The  schoolmaster  took  a 


seat  beside  him,  and,  stooping  over  the 
pillow,  whispered  his  name.  The  boy 
sprung  up,  stroked  his  face  with  his 
hand,  and  threw  his  wasted  arms  around 
his  neck,  crying  out  that  he  was  his 
dear  kind  friend. 

“ I hope  I always  was.  I meant  to 
be,  God  knows,”  said  the  poor  school- 
master. 

“ Who  is  that?”  said  the  boy,  seeing 
Nell.  “ I am  afraid  to  kiss  her,  lest  I 
should  make  her  ill.  Ask  her  to  shake 
hands  with  me.” 

The  sobbing  child  came  closer  up, 
and  took  the  little  languid  hand  in  hers. 
Releasing  his  again  after  a time,  the 
sick  boy  laid  him  gently  down. 

“You  remember  the  garden,  Harry,” 
whispered  the  schoolmaster,  anxious  to 
rouse  him,  for  a dulness  seemed  gather- 
ing upon  the  child,  “and  how  pleasant 
it  used  to  be  in  the  evening  time  ? You 
must  make  haste  to  visit  it  again,  for  I 
think  the  very  flowers  have  missed  you, 
and  are  less  gay  than  they  used  to  be. 
You  will  come  soon,  my  dear,  very  soon 
now,  — won’t  you  ? ” 

The  boy  smiled  faintly,  — so  very, 
very  faintly,  — and  put  his  hand  upon 
his  friend’s  gray  head.  He  moved  his 
lips  too,  but  no  voice  came  from  them  ; 
no,  not  a sound. 

In  the  silence  that  ensued,  the  hum 
of  distant  voices  borne  upon  the  evening 
air  came  floating  through  the  open  win- 
dow- “What’s  that?”  said  the  sick 
child,  opening  his  eyes. 

“ The  boys  at  play  upon  the  green.” 

He  took  a handkerchief  from  his  pil- 
low, and  tried  to  wave  it  above  his  head. 
But  the. feeble  arm  dropped  powerless 
down. 

“Shall  I do  it?”  said  the  school- 
master. 

“ Please  wave  it  at  the  window,” 
was  the  faint  reply.  “ Tie  it  to  the 
lattice.  Some  of  them  may  see  it  there. 
Perhaps  they  ’ll  think  of  me,  and  look 
this  way.” 

He  raised  his  head,  and  glanced  from 
the  fluttering  signal  to  his  idle  bat,  that 
lay  with  slate  and  book  and  other  boy- 
ish property  upon  a table  in  the  room. 
And  then  he  laid  him  softly  down  once 
more,  and  asked  if  the  little  girl  were 
there,  for  he  could  not  see  her. 


i iS 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


She  stepped  forward,  and  pressed 
the  passive  hand  that  lay  upon  the 
coverlet.  The  two  old  friends  and 
companions,  — for  such  they  were, 
though  they  were  man  and  child,  — 
held  each  other  in  a long  embrace,  and 
then  the  little  scholar  turned  his  face 
towards  the  wall,  and  fell  asleep. 

The  poor  schoolmaster  sat  in  the 
same  place,  holding  the  small  cold 
hand  in  his,  and  chafing  it.  It  was 
but  the  hand  of  a dead  child.  He  felt 
that ; and  yet  he  chafed  it  still,  and 
could  not  lay  it  down. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Almost  broken-hearted,  Nell  with- 
drew with  the  schoolmaster  from  the 
bedside  and  returned  to  his  cottage. 
In  the  midst  of  her  grief  and  tears  she 
was  yet  careful  to  conceal  their  real 
cause  from  the  old  man,  for  the  dead 
boy  had  been  a grandchild,  and  left  but 
one  aged  relative  to  mourn  his  prema- 
ture decay. 

She  stole  away  to  bed  as  quickly  as 
she  could,  and  when  she  was  alone, 
gave  free  vent  to  the  sorrow  with  which 
her  breast  was  overcharged.  But  the 
sad  scene  she  had  witnessed  was  not 
without  its  lesson  of  content  and  grati- 
tude ; of  content  with  the  lot  which 
left  her  health  and  freedom  ; and  grati- 
tude that  she  was  spared  to  the  one 
relative  and  friend  she  loved,  and  to 
live  and  move  in  a beautiful  world,  when 
so  many  young  creatures  — as  young 
and  full  of  hope  as  she  — were  stricken 
down  and  gathered  to  their  graves. 
How  many  of  the  mounds  in  that  old 
churchyard  where  she  had  lately  strayed 
grew  green  above  the  graves  of  chil- 
dren ! And  though  she  thought  as  a 
child  herself,  and  did  not  perhaps  suffi- 
ciently consider  to  what  a bright  and 
happy  existence  those  who  die  young 
are  borne,  and  how  in  death  they  lose 
the  pain  of  seeing  others  die  around 
them,  bearing  to  the  tomb  some,  strong 
affection  of  their  hearts  (which  makes 
the  old  die  maqy  times  in  one  long 
life),  still  she  thought,  wisely  enough, 
to  draw  a plain  and  easy  moral  from 


what  she  had  seen  that  night,  and  to 
store  it  deep  in  her  mind. 

Her  dreams  were  of  the  little  scholar : 
not  coffined  andcovered  up,  but  mingling 
with  angels,  and  smiling  happily.  The 
sun,  darting  his  cheerful  rays  into  the 
room,  awoke  her ; and  now  there  re- 
mained but  to  take  leave  of  the  poor 
schoolmaster  and  wander  forth  once 
^more. 

By  the  time  they  were  ready  to  de- 
part, school  had  begun.  In  the  dark- 
ened room,  the  din  of  yesterday  was 
going  on  again  ; a little  sobered  and 
softened  down,  perhaps,  but  only  a very 
little,  if  at  all.  The  schoolmaster  rose 
from  his  desk  and  walked  with  them 
to  the  gate. 

It  was  with  a trembling  and  reluctant 
hand  that  the  child  held  out  to  him 
the  money  which  the  lady  had  given 
her  at  the  races  for  her  flowers  ; falter- 
ing in  her  thanks,  as  she  thought  how 
small  the  sum  was,  and  blushing  as  she 
offered  it.  But  he  bade  her  put  it  up, 
and,  stooping  to  kiss  her  cheek,  turned 
back  into  his  house. 

They  had  not  gone  half  a dozen  paces 
when  he  was  at  the  door  again.  The 
old  man  retraced  his  steps  to  shake 
hands,  and  the  child  did  the  same. 

“ Good  fortune  and  happiness  go  with 
you  ! ” said  the  poor* schoolmaster.  “ I 
am  quite  a solitary  man  now.  If  you 
ever  pass  this  way  again,  you  ’ll  not 
forget  the  little  village  school.” 

“We  shall  never  forget  it,  sir,”  re- 
joined Nell ; “ nor  ever  forget  to  be 
grateful  to  you  for  your  kindness  to  us.” 

“ I have  heard  such  words  from  the 
lips  of  children  very  often,”  said  the 
schoolmaster,  shaking  his  head,  and 
smiling  thoughtfully,  “ but  they  were 
soon  forgotten.  I had  attached  one 
young  friend  to  me,  the  better  friend 
for  being  young  — but  that’s  over  — 
God  bless  you  ! ” 

They  bade  him  farewell  very  many 
times,  and  turned  away,  walking  slowly 
and  often  looking  back,  until  they  could 
see  him  no  more.  At  length  they  had 
left  the  village  far  behind,  and  even 
lost  sight  of  the  smoke  among  the  trees. 
They  trudged  onward  now,  at  a quicker 
pace,  resolving  to  keep  the  main  road, 
and  go  wherever  it  might  lead  them. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


But  main  roads  stretch  a long,  long 
way.  With  the  exception  of  two  or 
three  inconsiderable  clusters  of  cottages 
which  they  passed  without  stopping, 
and  one  lonely  roadside  public-house 
where  they  had  some  bread  and  cheese, 
this  highway  had  led  them  to  nothing, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  and  still  length- 
ened out  far  in  the  distance,  the  same 
dull,  tedious,  winding  course  that  they 
had  been  pursuing  all  day.  As  they 
had  no  resource,  however,  but  to  go 
forward,  they  still  kept  on,  though  at  a 
much  slower  pace,  being  very  weary  and 
fatigued. 

The  afternoon  had  worn  away  into  a 
beautiful  evening,  when  they  arrived  at 
a point  where  the  road  made  a sharp 
turn  and  struck  across  a common.  On 
the  border  of  this  common,  and  close  to 
the  hedge  which  divided  it  from  the 
cultivated  fields,  a caravan  was  drawn 
up  to  rest ; upon  which,  by  reason  of  its 
situation,  they  came  so  suddenly  that 
they  could  not  have  avoided  it  if  they 
would. 

It  was  not  a shabby,  dingy,  dusty 
cart,  but  a smart  little  house  upon 
wheels,  with  white  dimity  curtains  fes- 
tooning the  windows,  and  window-shut- 
ters of  green  picked  out  with  panels  of 
a staring  red,  in  which  happily  con- 
trasted colors  the  whole  concern  shone 
brilliant.  Neither  was  it  a poor  caravan 
drawn  by  a single  donkey  or  emaciated 
horse,  for  a pair  of  horses  in  pretty  good 
condition  were  released  from  the  shafts 
and  grazing  on  the  frowzy  grass.  Nei- 
ther was  it  a gypsy  caravan,  for  at  the 
open  door  (graced  with  a bright  brass 
knocker)  sat  a Christian  lady,  stout  and 
comfortable  to  look  upon,  who  wore  a 
large  bonnet  trembling  with  bows.  And 
that  it  was  not  an  unprovided  or  desti- 
tute caravan,  was  clear  from  this  lady’s 
occupation,  which  was  the  very  pleasant 
and  refreshing  one  of  taking  tea.  The 
tea  things,  including  a bottle  of  rather 
suspicious  character  and  a cold  knuckle 
of  ham,  were  set  forth  upon  a drum, 
covered  with  a white  napkin  ; and  there, 
as  if  at  the  most  convenient  round  table 
in  all  the  world,  sat  this  roving  lady, 
taking  her  tea  and  enjoying  the  pros- 
pect. 

It  happened  that  at  that  moment  the 


119 

lady  of  the  caravan  had  her  cup  (which, 
that  everything  about  her  might  be  of  a 
stout  and  comfortable  kind,  was  a break- 
fast cup)  to  her  lips,  and  that,  having 
her  eyes  lifted  to  the  sky  in  her  enjoy- 
ment of  the  full  flavor  of  the  tea,  not 
unmingled  possibly  with  just  the  slight- 
est dash  or  gleam  of  something  out  of 
the  suspicious  bottle,  — but  this  is  mere 
speculation  and  not  distinct  matter  of 
history,  — it  happened  that  being  thus 
agreeably  engaged,  she  did  not  see  the 
travellers  when  they  first  came  up.  It 
was  not  until  she  was  in  the  act  of  set- 
ting down  the  cup,  and  drawing  a long 
breath  after  the  exertion  of  causing  its 
contents  to  disappear,  that  the  lady  of 
the  caravan  beheld  an  old  man  and  a 
young  child  walking  slowly  by,  and 
glancing  at  her  proceedings  with  eyes  of 
modest  but  hungry  admiration. 

“Hey? ’’  cried  the  lady  of  the  cara- 
van, scooping  the  crumbs  out  of  her 
lap  and  swallowing  the  same  before 
wiping  her  lips.  “ Yes,  to  be  sure. 
Who  won  the  Helter-Skelter  Plate, 
child  ! ” 

“ Won  what,  ma’am  ? ” asked  Nell. 

“ The  Helter-Skelter  Plate  at  the 
races,  child,  — the  plate  that  was  run 
for  on  the  second  day.” 

“ On  the  second  day,  ma’am?" 
“Second  day!  Yes,  second  day,” 
repeated  the  lady  with  an  air  of  impa- 
tience. “ Can’t  you  say  who  won  the 
Helter-Skelter  Plate  when  you  ’re 
asked  the  question  civilly  ? ” 

“ I don’t  know,  ma’am.” 

“ Don’t  know  ! ” repeated  the  lady  of 
the  caravan.  “ Why,  you  were  there. 
I saw  you  with  my  own  eyes.” 

Nell  was  not  a little  alarmed  to  hear 
this,  supposing  that  the  lady  might  be 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  firm  of 
Short  and  Codlin  ; but  what  followed 
tended  to  reassure  her. 

“And  very  sorry  I was,”  said  the 
lady  of  the  caravan,  “ to  see  you  in  com- 
pany with  a Punch  ; a low,  practical, 
wulgar  wretch,  that  people  should  scorn 
to  look  at.” 

“ I was  not  there  by  choice,”  returned 
the  child.  “ We  did  n’t  know  our  way, 
and  the  two  men  were  very  kind  to  us, 
and  let  us  travel  with  them.  Do  you 
— do  you  know  them,  ma’am  ?” 


120 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“ Know  ’em,  child  ! ” cried  the  lady 
of  the  caravan,  in  a sort  of  shriek,  — 
“ know  them  l But  you ’re  young  and 
inexperienced,  and  that ’s  your  excuse 
for  asking  sich  a question.  Do  I look 
as  if  I know’d  ’em?  does  the  caravan 
look  as  if  it  know’d  ’em  ? ” 

“ No,  ma’am,  no,”  said  the  child, 
fearing  she  had  committed  some  griev- 
ous fault.  I beg  your  pardon.” 

It  was  granted  immediately,  though 
the  lady  still  appeared  much  ruffled  and 
discomposed  by  the  degrading  suppo- 
sition. The  child  then  explained  that 
they  had  left  the  races  on  the  first  day, 
and  were  travelling  to  the  next  town  on 
that  road,  where  they  purposed  to  spend 
the  night.  As  the  countenance  of  the 
stout  lady  began  to  clear  up,  she  ven- 
tured to  inquire  how  far  it  was.  The 
reply  — which  the  stout  lady  did  not 
come  to,  until  she  had  thoroughly  ex- 
plained that  she  went  to  the  races  on 
the  first  day  in  a gig,  and  as  an  expe- 
dition of  pleasure,  and  that  her  pres- 
ence there  had  no  connection  with 
any  matters  of  business  or  profit  — was, 
that  the  town  was  eight  miles  off. 

This  discouraging  information  a lit- 
tle dashed  the  child,  who  could  scarcely 
repress  a tear  as  she  glanced  along  the 
darkening  road.  Her  grandfather  made 
no  complaint,  but  he  sighed  heavily  as 
he  leaned  upon  his  staff,  and  vainly 
tried  to  pierce  the  dusty  distance. 

The  lady  of  the  caravan  was  in  the 
.act  of  gathering  her  tea  equipage  to- 
gether, preparatory  to  clearing  the  table, 
but  noting  the  child’s  anxious  manner, 
she  hesitated  and  stopped.  The  child 
courtesied,  thanked  her  for  her  informa- 
tion, and,  giving  her  hand  to  the  old 
man,  had  already  got  some  fifty  yards 
or  so  away,  when  the  lady  of  the  cara- 
van called  to  her  to  return. 

“Come  nearer,  nearer  still,”  said 
she,  beckoning  to  her  to  ascend  the 
steps.  “Are  you  hungry,  child?” 

“ Not  very,  but  we  are  tired,  and  it ’s 
— it  is  a long  way  — * ” 

“ Well,  hungry  or  not,  you  had  bet- 
ter have  some  tea,”  rejoined  her  new 
acquaintance.  “ I suppose  yoq  are 
agreeable  to  that,  old  gentleman  ? ” 
The  grandfather  humbly  pulled  off  his 
hat  and  thanked  her.  The  lady  of  the 


caravan  then  bade  him  come  up  thtf 
steps  likewise  ; but  the  drum  proving 
an  inconvenient  table  for  two,  they  de- 
scended again  and  sat  upon  the  grass, 
where  she  handed  down  to  them  the  tea- 
tray,  the  bread  and  butter,  the  knuckle 
of  ham,  and  in  short  everything  of  which 
she  had  partaken  herself,  except  the  bot- 
tle, which  she  had  already  embraced 
an  opportunity  of  slipping  into  her 
pocket. 

“ Set  ’em  out  near  the  hind  wheels, 
child  ; that’s  the  best  place,”  said  their 
friend,  superintending  the  arrangements 
from  above.  “ Now  hand  up  the  tea- 
pot for  a little  more  hot  water  and  a 
pinch  of  fresh  tea,  and  then  both  of  you 
eat  and  drink  as  much  as  you  can,  and 
don’t  spare  anything ; that ’s  all  I ask 
of  you.” 

They  might  perhaps  have  carried  out 
the  lady’s  wish,  if  it  had  been  less 
freely  expressed,  or  even  if  it  had  not 
been  expressed  at  all.  But  as  this  di- 
rection relieved  them  from  any  shadow 
of  delicacy  or  uneasiness,  they  made 
a hearty  meal  and  enjoyed  it  to  the 
utmost. 

While  they  were  thus  engaged,  the 
lady  of  the  caravan  alighted  on  the 
earth,  and  with  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her,  and  her  large  bonnet  trem- 
bling excessively,  walked  up  and  down 
in  a measured  tread  and  very  stately 
manner,  surveying  the  caravan  from  time 
to  time  with  an  air  of  calm  delight,  and 
deriving  particular  gratification  from  the 
red  panels  and  the  brass  knocker.  When 
she  had  taken  this  gentle  exercise  for 
some  time,  she  sat  down  upon  the  steps 
and  called  “ George  ” ; whereupon  a 
man  in  a carter’s  frock,  who  had  been 
so  shrouded  in  a hedge  up  to  this  time 
as  to  see  everything  that  passed,  without 
being  seen  himself,  parted  the  twigs 
that  concealed  him,  and  appeared  in  a 
sitting  attitude,  supporting  on  his  legs 
a baking-dish  and  a half-gallon  stone 
bottle,  and  bearing  in  his  right  hand  a 
knife,  and  in  his  left  a fork. 

“Yes,  missus,”  said  George. 

“ How  did  you  find  the  cold  pie, 
George  ? ” 

“ It  warn’t  amiss,  mum.” 

“ And  the  beer  ? ” said  the  lady  of  the 
caravan,  with  an  appearance  of  being 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


121 


more  interested  in  this  question  than 
the  last ; “ is  it  passable,  George  ? ” 

“It’s  more  flatterer  than  it  might 
be,”  George  returned  ; “but  it  ain’t  so 
bad  for  all  that.” 

To  set  fhe  mind  of  his  mistress  at 
rest,  he  took  a sip  (amounting  in  quan- 
tity to  a pint  or  thereabouts)  from  the 
stone  bottle,  and  then  smacked  his  lips, 
winked  his  eye,  and  nodded  his  head. 
No  doubt  with  the  same  amiable  desire, 
he  immediately  resumed  his  knife  and 
fork,  as  a practical  assurance  that  the 
beer  had  wrought  no  bad  effect  upon 
his  appetite. 

The  lady  of  the  caravan  looked  on 
approvingly  for  some  time,  and  then 
said,  — 

“ Have  you  nearly  finished?  ” 

“Wery  nigh,  mum.”  And  indeed, 
after  scraping  the  dish  all  round  with 
his  knife,  and  carrying  the  choice  brown 
morsels  to  his  mouth,  and  after  taking 
such  a scientific  pull  at  the  stone  bottle 
that,  by  degrees  almost  imperceptible 
to  the  sight,  his  head  went  farther  and 
farther  back  until  he  lay  nearly  at  his 
full  length  upon  the  ground,  this  gen- 
tleman declared  himself  quite  disen- 
gaged, and  came  forth  from  his  re- 
treat. 

“ I hope  I have  n’t  hurried  you, 
George,”  said  his  mistress,  who  ap- 
eared  to  have  a great  sympathy  with 
is  late  pursuit. 

“ If  you  have,”  returned  the  follower, 
wisely  reserving  himself  for  any  favora- 
ble contingency  that  might  occur,  “we 
must  make  up  for  it  next  time,  that’s 
all.” 

“We  are  not  a heavy  load,  George  ? ” 

“ That ’s  always  what  the  ladies  say,” 
replied  the  man,  looking  a long  way 
round,  as  if  he  were  appealing  to  nature 
in  general  against  such  monstrous  prop- 
ositions. “ If.  you  see  a woman  a driv- 
ing, you  ’ll  always  perceive  that  she 
never  will  keep  her  whip  still ; the  horse 
can’t  go  fast  enough  for  her.  If  cattle 
have  got  their  proper  load,  you  never 
can  persuade  a woman  that  they  ’ll  not 
bear  something  more.  What  is  the 
cause  of  this  here  ! ” 

“ Would  these  two  travellers  make 
much  difference  to  the  horses,  if  we 
took  them  with  us  ? ” asked  his  mis- 


tress, offering  no  reply  to  the  philosoph- 
ical inquiry,  and  pointing  to  Nell  and 
the  old  man,  who  were  painfully  pre- 
paring to  resume  their  journey  on  foot. 

“They ’d  make  a difference  in  course,” 
said  George,  doggedly. 

“ Would  they  make  much  difference?” 
repeated  his  mistress.  “ They  can’t  be 
very  heavy.” 

“ The  weight  o’  the  pair,  mum,”  said 
George,  eying  them  with  the  look  of  a 
man  who  was  calculating  within  half  an 
ounce  or  so,  “would  be  a trifle  under 
that  of  Oliver  Cromwell.” 

Nell  was  very  much  surprised  that 
the  man  should  be  so  accurately  ac- 
quainted with  the  weight  of  one  whom 
she  had  read  of  in  books  as  having 
lived  considerably  before  their  time, 
but  speedily  forgot  the  subject  in  the  joy 
of  hearing  that  they  were  to  go  forward 
in  the  caravan,  for  which  she  thanked 
its  lady  with  unaffected  earnestness. 
She  helped  with  great  readiness  and 
alacrity  to  put  away  the  tea  things  and 
other  matters  that  were  lying  about, 
and,  the  horses  being  by  that  time  har- 
nessed, mounted  into  the  vehicle,  fol- 
lowed by  her  delighted  grandfather. 
Their  patroness  then  shut  the  door  and 
sat  herself  down  by  her  drum  at  an  open 
window  ; and,  the  steps  being  struck  by 
George  and  stowed  under  the  carriage, 
away  they  went,  with  a great  noise  of 
flapping  and  creaking  and  straining  ; 
and  the  bright  brass  knocker,  which 
nobody  ever  knocked  at,  knocking  one 
perpetual  double-knock  of  its  own  ac- 
cord as  they  jolted  heavily  along. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

When  they  had  travelled  slowly  for- 
ward for  some  short  distance,  Nell  ven- 
tured to  steal  a look  round  the  cara- 
van and  observe  it  more  closely.  One 
half  of  it  — that  moiety  in  which  the 
comfortable  proprietress  was  then  seat- 
ed— was  carpeted,  and  so  partitioned 
off  at  the  farther  end  as  to  accom- 
modate a sleeping-place,  constructed 
after  the  fashion  of  a berth  on  board 
ship,  which  was  shaded,  like  the  little 
windows,  with  fair  white  curtains,  and 


122 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


looked  comfortable  enough,  though  by 
what  kind  of  gymnastic  exercise  the 
lady  of  the  caravan  ever  contrived  to  get 
into  it,  was  an  unfathomable  mystery. 
The  other  half  served  for  a kitchen, 
and  was  fitted  up  with  a stove  whose 
small  chimney  passed  through  the  roof. 
It  held  also  a closet  or  larder,  several 
chests,  a great  pitcher  of  water,  and  a 
few  cooking  utensils  and  articles  of 
crockery.  These  latter  necessaries  hung 
upon  the  wails,  which,  in  that  portion 
of  the  establishment  devoted  to  the  lady 
of  the  caravan,  were  ornamented  with 
such  gayer  and  lighter  decorations  as  a 
triangle  and  a couple  of  well-thumbed 
tambourines. 

The  lady  of  the  caravan  sat  at  one 
window  in  all  the  pride  and  poetry  "of 
the  musical  instruments,  and  little  Nell 
and  her  grandfather  sat  at  the  other  in 
all  the  humility  of  the  kettle  and  sauce- 
pans, while  the  machine  jogged  on 
and  shifted  the  darkening  prospect  very 
slowly.  At  first  the  two  travellers  spoke 
little,  and  only  in  whispers  ; but  as  they 
grew  more  familiar  with  the  place,  they 
ventured  to  converse  with  greater  free- 
dom, and  talked  about  the  country 
through  which  they  were  passing,  and 
the  different  objects  that  presented 
themselves,  until  the  old  man  fell 
asleep;  which  the  lady  of  the  caravan 
observing,  invited  Nell  to  come  and 
sit  beside  her. 

“Well,  child,”  she  said,  “how  do 
you  like  this  way  of  travelling?” 

Nell  replied  that  she  thought  it  was 
vecy  pleasant  indeed,  to  which  the  lady 
assented  in  the  case  of  people  who 
had  their  spirits.  For  herself,  she  said, 
she  was  troubled  with.  a lowness  in 
that  respect  which  required  a constant 
stimulant ; though  whether  the  aforesaid 
stimulant  was  derived  from  the  suspi- 
cious bottle  of  which  mention  has  been 
already  made,  or  from  other  sources, 
she  did  not  say. 

“That’s  the  happiness  of  you  young 
people,”  she  continued.  “ You  don’t 
know  what  it  is  to  be  low  in  your  feel- 
ings. You  always  have  your  appetites 
too,  and  what  a comfort  that  is.” 

Nell  thought  that  she  could  some- 
times dispense  with  her  own  appetite 
very  conveniently  ; and  thought,  more- 


over, that  there  was  nothing,  either  in 
the  lady’s  personal  appearance  or  in  her 
manner  of  taking  tea,  to  lead  to  the 
conclusion  that  her  natural  relish  for 
meat  and  drink  had  at  all  failed  her. 
She  silently  assented,  however,  as  in 
duty  bound,  to  what  the  lady  had  said, 
and  waited  until  she  should  speak 
again. 

Instead  of  speaking,  however,  she  sat 
looking  at  the  child  for  a long  time  in 
silence,  and  then,  getting  up,  brought 
out  from  a corner  a large  roll  of  can- 
vas about  a yard  in  width,  which  she 
laid  upon  the  floor  and  spread  open 
with  her  foot  until  it  nearly  reached  from 
one  end  of  the  caravan  to  the  other. 

“There,  child,” she  said,  “ read  that.” 

Nell  walked  down  it,  and  read  aloud, 
in  enormous  black  letters,  the  inscrip- 
tion, “ Jarley’s  Wax-Work.” 

“ Read  it  again,”  said  the  lady,  com- 
placently. 

‘ ‘ J arley ’s  W ax- W ork,  ’ ’ repeated  N ell. 

“ That ’s  me,”  said  the  lady.  “ I am 
Mrs.  J arley.” 

Giving  the  child  an  encouraging  look, 
intended  to  reassure  her  and  let  her 
know,  that,  although  she  stood  in  the 
presence  of  the  original  Jarley,  she 
must  not  allow  herself  to  be  utterly 
overwhelmed  and  borne  down,  the  lady 
of  the  caravan  unfolded  another  scroll, 
whereon  was  the  inscription,  “ One 
hundred  figures  the  full  size  of  life  ” ; 
and  then  another  scroll,  on  which  was 
written.  “The  only  stupendous  collec- 
tion of  real  wax- work  in  the  world”; 
and  then  several  smaller  scrolls  with 
such  inscriptions  as,  “Now  exhibiting 
within” — “The  genuine  and  only 
Jarley”  — “Jarley’s  unrivalled  collec- 
tion”— “Jarley  is  the  delight  of  the 
Nobility  and  Gentry”  — “The  Royal 
Family  are  the  patrons  of  Jarley.” 
When  she  had  exhibited  these  levia- 
thans of  public  announcement  to  the 
astonished  child,  she  brought  forth 
specimens  of  the  lesser  fry,  in  the 
shape  of  handbills,  some  of  which  were 
couched  in  the  form  of  parodies  on 
popular  melodies,  as  “Believe  me  if 
all  Jarley’s  wax-work  so  rare”  — “I 
saw  thy  show  in  youthful  prime”  — 
“Over  the  water  to  Jarley”;  while, 
to  consult  all  tastes,  others  were  com- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


123 


posed  with  a view  to  the  lighter  and 
more  facetious  spirits,  as  a parody  on 
the  favorite  air  of  “ If  I*  had  a don- 
key,” beginning, 

“ If  I know’d  a donkey  wot  would  n’t  go 

To  see  Mrs.  Jarley’s  wax-work  show, 

Do  you  think  I ’d  acknowledge  him  ? 

O no,  no  ! 

Then  run  to  Jarley’s  — ” 

besides  several  compositions  in  prose, 
purporting  to  be  dialogues  between  the 
Emperor  of  China  and  an  oyster,  or  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  and  a dissen- 
ter on  the  subject  of  church-rates,  but 
all  having  the  same  moral,  namely,  that 
the  reader  must  make  haste  to  Jarley’s, 
and  that  children  and  servants  were 
admitted  at  half-price.  When  she  had 
brought  all  these  testimonials  of  her 
important  position  in  society  to  bear 
upon  her  young  companion,  Mrs.  Jar- 
ley  rolled  them  up,  and,  having  put 
them  carefully  away,  sat  down  again, 
and  looked  at  the  child  in  triumph. 

“ Never  go  into  the  company  of  a 
filthy  Punch  any  more,”  said  Mrs.  Jar- 
ley,  “after  this.” 

“ I never  saw  any  wax-work,  ma’am,” 
said  Nell.  “ Is  it  funnier  than  Punch?  ” 

“Funnier!”  said  Mrs.  Jarley,  in  a 
shrill  voice.  “ It  is  not  funny  at 
all.” 

“O,”  said  Nell,  with  all  possible  hu- 
mility. 

“ It  isn’t  funny  at  all,”  repeated 
Mrs.  Jarley.  “ Its  calm  and  — what’s 
that  word  again  — critical  ? — no  — 
classical,  that ’s  it,  — it ’s  calm  and 
classical.  No  low  beatings  and  knock- 
ings  about,  no  jokings  and  squeakings 
like  your  precious  Punches,  but  always 
the  same,  with  a constantly  unchang- 
ing air  of  coldness  and  gentility;  and 
so  like  life,  that  if  wax-work  only  spoke 
and  walked  about,  you’d  hardly  know 
the  difference.  I won’t  go  so  far  as  to 
say,  that,  as  it  is,  I ’ve  seen  wax-work 
quite  like  life,  but  I ’ve  certainly  seen 
some  life  that  was  exactly  like  wax- 
work.”  _ 

“Is  it  here,  ma’am?”  asked  Nell, 
whose  curiosity  was  awakened  by  this 
description. 

“ Is  what  here,  child?” 

“ The  wax-work,  ma’am.” 

“ Why,  bless  you,  child,  what  are 


you  thinking  of?  How  could  such  a 
collection  be  here,  where  you  see  every- 
thing except  the  inside  of  one  little  cup- 
board and  a few  boxes?  It’s  gone  on 
in  the  other  wans  to  the  assembly- 
rooms,  and  there  it  ’ll  be  exhibited  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  You  are  going  to 
the  same  town,  and  you  ’ll  see  it  I dare 
say.  It’s  natural  to  expect  that  you  ’ll 
see  it,  and  I ’ve  no  doubt  you  will.  I 
suppose  you  could  n’t  stop  away  if  you 
was  to  try  ever  so  much.” 

“ I shall  not  be  in  the  town,  I think, 
ma’am,”  said  the  child. 

“Not  there ! ” cried  Mrs.  Jarley. 
“Then  where  will  you  be?” 

“I — I — don’t  quite  know.  I am 
not  certain.” 

“ You  don’t  mean  to  say  that  you  ’re 
travelling  about  the  country  without 
knowing  where  you  ’re  going  to?  ” said 
the  lady  of  the  caravan.  “What  curi- 
ous people  you  are  ! What  line  are 
you  in  ? You  looked  to  me  at  the 
races,  child,  as  if  you  were  quite  out 
of  your  element,  and  had  got  there  by 
accident.” 

“We  were  there  quite  by  accident,” 
returned  Nell,  confused  by  this  abrupt 
questioning.  “We  are  poor  people, 
ma’am,  and  are  only  wandering  about. 
W e have  nothing  to  do,  — I wish  we 
had.” 

“ You  amaze  me  more  and  more,” 
said  Mrs.  Jarley,  after  remaining  for 
some  time  as  mute  as  one  of  her  own 
figures.  “ Why,  what  do  you  call  your- 
selves ? Not  beggars  ? ” 

“ Indeed,  ma’am,  I don’t  know  what 
else  we  are,”  returned  the  child. 

“Lord  bless  me,”  said  the  lady  of 
the  caravan.  “ I never  heard  of  such  a 
thing.  Who’d  have  thought  it ! ” 

She  remained  so  long  silent  after  this 
.exclamation,  that  Nell  feared  she  felt 
her  having  been  induced  to  bestow  her 
protection  and  conversation  upon  one 
so  poor,  to  be  an  outrage  upon  her  dig- 
nity that  nothing  could  repair.  This 
persuasion  was  rather  confirmed  than 
otherwise  by  the  tone  in  which  she  at 
length  broke  silence  and  said,  — 

“And  yet  you  can  read.  And  write 
too,  I should  n’t  wonder  ? ” 

“Yes,  ma’am,”  said  the  child,  fearful 
of  giving  new  offence  by  the  confession. 


24 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“Well,  and  what  a thing  that  is,” 
returned  Mrs.  Jarley.  “ / can’t  ! ” 

Nell  said  “ Indeed,”  in  a tone  which 
might  imply,  either  that  she  was  rea- 
sonably surprised  to  find  the  genuine 
and  only  Jarley,  who  was  the  delight  of 
the  Nobility  and  Gentry  and  the  pecu- 
liar pet  of  the  Royal  Family,  destitute 
of  these  familiar  arts ; or  that  she  pre- 
sumed so  great  a lady  could  scarcely 
stand  in  need  of  such  ordinary  accom- 
plishments. In  whatever  way  Mrs. 
Jarley  received  the  response,  it  did  not 
provoke  her  to  further  questioning,  or 
tempt  her  into  any  more  remarks  at  the 
time,  for  she  relapsed  into  a thoughtful 
silence,  and  remained  in  that  state  so 
long  that  Nell  withdrew  to  the  other 
window  and  rejoined  her  grandfather, 
who  was  now  awake. 

At  length  the  lady  of  the  caravan 
shook  off  her  fit  of  meditation,  and, 
summoning  the  driver  to  come  under 
the  window  at  which  she  was  seated, 
held  a long  conversation  with  him  in  a 
low  tone  of  voice,  as  if  she  were  asking 
his  advice  on  an  important  point,  and 
discussing  the  pros  and  cons  of  some 
very  weighty  matter.  This  conference 
at  length  concluded,  she  drew  in  her 
head  again,  and  beckoned  Nell  to  ap- 
proach. 

“And  the  old  gentleman  too,”  said 
Mrs.  Jarley;  “for  I want  to  have  a 
word  with  him.  Do  you  want  a 
good  situation  for  your  granddaughter, 
master?  If  you  do,  I can  put  her  in 
the  way  of  getting  one.  What  do  you 
say?  ” 

“ I can’t  leave  her,”  answered  the 
old  man.  “We  can’t  separate.  What 
would  become  of  me  without  her?” 

“ I should  have  thought  you  were 
old  enough  to  take  care  of  yourself,  if 
you  ever  will  be,”  retorted  Mrs.  Jarley, 
sharply. 

“ But  he  never  will  be,”  said  the 
child,  in  an  earnest  whisper.  “ I fear 
he  never  will  be  again.  Pray  do  not 
speak  harshly  to  him.  We  are  very 
thankful  to  you,”  she  added  aloud  ; 
“ but  neither  of  us  could  part  from  the 
other,  if  all  the  wealth  of  the  world  were 
halved  between  us.” 

Mrs.  Jarley  was  a little  disconcerted 
by  this  reception  of  her  proposal,  and 


looked  at  the  old  man,  who  tenderly 
took  Nell’s  hand  and  detained  it  in  his 
own,  as  if  she  could  have  very  well  dis- 
pensed with  his  company  or  even  his 
earthly  existence.  After  an  awkward 
pause,  she  thrust  her  head  out  of  the 
window  again,  and  had  another  confer- 
ence with  the  driver  upon  some  point 
on  which  they  did  not  seem  to  agree 
quite  so  readily  as  on  their  former  topic 
of  discussion ; but  they  concluded  at  last, 
and  she  addressed  the  grandfather  again. 

“ If  you’re  really  disposed  to  employ 
yourself,”  said  Mrs.  Jarley,  “there 
would  be  plenty  for  you  to  do  in  the 
way  of  helping  to  dust  the  figures,  and 
take  the  checks,  and  so  forth.  What  I 
want  your  granddaughter  for,  is  to  point 
’em  out  to  the  company ; they  would  be 
soon  learnt,  and  she  has  a way  with  her 
that  people  wouldn’t  think  unpleasant, 
though  she  does  come  after  me ; for 
I ’ve  been  always  accustomed  to  go 
round  with  visitors  myself,  which  I 
should  keep  on  doing  now,  only  that 
my  spirits  make  a little  ease  absolutely 
necessary.  It ’s  not  a common  offer, 
bear  in  mind,”  said  the  lad)',  rising  into 
the  tone  and  manner  in  which  she  was 
accustomed  to  address  her  audiences : 
“ it ’s  Jarley’s  wax-work,  remember. 
The  duty ’s  very  light  and  genteel,  the 
company  particular  select,  the  exhibi- 
tion takes  place  in  assembly-rooms, 
town  halls,  large  rooms  at  inns,  or  auc- 
tion galleries.  There  is  none  of  your 
open-air  wagrancy  at  Jarley’s,  recollect ; 
there  is  no  tarpaulin  and  sawdust  at 
Jarley’s,  remember.  Every  expectation 
held  out  in  the  handbills  is  realized  to 
the  utmost,,  and  the  whole  forms  an 
effect  of  imposing  brilliancy  hitherto 
unrivalled  in  this  kingdom.  Remember 
that  the  price  of  admission  is  only  six- 
pence, and  that  this  is  an  opportunity 
which  may  never  occur  again  ! ” 

Descending  from  the  sublime,  when 
she  had  reached  this  point,  to  the  de- 
tails of  common  life,  Mrs.  Jarley  re- 
marked that,  with  reference  to  salary, 
she  could  pledge  herself  to  no  specific 
sum  until  she  had  sufficiently  tested 
Nell’s  abilities,  and  narrowly  watched 
her  in  the  performance  of  her  duties. 
But  board  and  lodging,  both  for  her 
and  her  grandfather,  she  bound  herself 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


to  provide,  and  she  furthermore  passed 
her  word  that  the  board  should  always 
be  good  in  quality,  and  in  quantity  plen- 
tiful. 

Nell  and  her  grandfather  consulted 
together,  and  while  they  were  so  en- 
gaged Mrs.  Jarley  with  her  hands  be- 
hind her  walked  up  and  down  the  cara- 
van, as  she  had  walked  after  tea  on  the 
dull  earth,  with  uncommon  dignity  and 
self-esteem.  Nor  will  this  appear  so 
slight  a circumstance  as  to  be  unworthy 
of  mention,  when  it  is  remembered  that 
the  caravan  was  in  uneasy  motion  all 
the  time,  and  that  none  but  a person  of 
great  natural  stateliness  and  acquired 
grace  could  have  forborne  to  stagger. 

“ Now,  child,”  cried  Mrs.  Jarley, 
coming  to  a halt  as  Nell  turned  towards 
her. 

“We  are  very  much  obliged  to  you, 
ma’am,”  said  Nell,  “and  thankfully 
accept  your  offer.” 

“And  you’ll  never  be  sorry  for  it,” 
returned  Mrs.  Jarley.  “ I ’m  pretty  sure 
of  that.  So,  as  that ’s  all  settled,  let  us 
have  a bit  of  supper.” 

In  the  mean  while,  the  caravan  blun- 
dered on  as  if  it,  too,  had  been  drinking 
strong  beer  and  was  drowsy,  and  came 
at  last  upon  the  paved  streets  of  a town 
which  were  clear  of  passengers,  and 
quiet,  for  it  was  by  this  time  near  mid- 
night, and  the  townspeople  were  all 
abed.  As  it  was  too  late  an  hour  to  re- 
pair to  the  exhibition-room,  they  turned 
aside  into  a piece  of  waste  ground  that 
lay  just  within  the  old  town  gate,  and 
drew  up  there  for  the  night,  near  to  an- 
other caravan,  which,  notwithstanding 
that  it  bore  on  the  lawful  panel  the 
great  name  of  Jarley,  and  was  employed 
besides  in  conveying  from  place  to  place 
the  wax-work  which  was  its  country’s 
pride,  was  designated  by  a grovelling 
stamp-office  as  a “ Common  Stage 
Wagon”  and  numbered  too  — seven 
thousand  odd  hundred — as  though  its 
precious  freight  were  mere  flour  or 
coals  ! 

This  ill-used  machine  being  empty 
(for  it  had  deposited  its  burden  at  the 
place  of  exhibition,  and  lingered  here 
until  its  services  were  again  required) 
was  assigned  to  the  old  man  as  his 
sleeping-place  for  the  night ; and  with- 


125 

in  its  wooden  walls  Nell  made  him  up 
the  best  bed  she  could  from  the  mate- 
rials at  hand.  For  herself,  she  was  to 
sleep  in  Mrs.  Jarley ’s  own  travelling- 
carriage,  as  a signal  mark  of  that  lady’s 
favor  and  confidence. 

She  had  taken  leave  of  her  grand- 
father and  was  returning  to  the  other 
wagon,  when  she  was  tempted  by  the 
pleasant  coolness  of  the  night  to  linger 
for  a little  while  in  the  air.  The  moon 
was  shining  down  upon  the  old  gate- 
way of  the  town,  leaving  the  low  arch- 
way very  black  and  dark ; and  with  a 
mingled  sensation  of  curiosity  and  fear, 
she  slowly  approached  the  gate,  and 
stood  still  to  look  up  at  it,  wondering  to 
see  how  dark  and  grim  and  old  and 
cold  it  looked. 

There  was  an  empty  niche  from  which 
some  old  statue  had  fallen  or  been  car- 
ried away  hundreds  of  years  ago,  and 
she  was  thinking  what  strange  people  it 
must  have  looked  down  upon  when  it 
stood  there,  and  how  many  hard  strug- 
gles might  have  taken  place,  and  how 
many  murders  might  have  been  done, 
upon  that  silent  spot,  when  there  sud- 
denly emerged  from  the  black  shade 
of  the  arch  a man.  The  instant  he 
appeared  she  recognized  him.  Who 
could  have  failed  to  recognize,  in  that 
instant,  the  ugly,  misshapen  Quilp  ! 

The  street  beyond  was  so  narrow, 
and  the  shadow  of  the  houses  on  one 
side  of  the  way  so  deep,  that  he  seemed 
to  have  risen  out  of  the  earth.  But 
there  he  was.  The  child  withdrew  into 
a dark  corner,  and  saw  him  pass  close 
to  her.  He  had  a stick  in  his  hand,  and 
when  he.  had  got  clear  of  the  shadow  of 
the  gateway,  he  leant  upon  it,  looked 
back  — directly,  as  it  seemed,  towards 
where  she  stood  — and  beckoned. 

To  her?  O no,  thank  God,  not  to 
her ; for  as  she  stood,  in  an  extremity 
of  fear,  hesitating  whether  to  scream  for 
help,  or  come  from  her  hiding-place  and 
fly,  before  he  should  draw  nearer,  there 
issued  slowly  forth  from  the  arch  an- 
other figure,  — that  of  a boy,  — who  car- 
ried on  his  back  a trunk. 

“ Faster,  sirrah  ! ” said  Quilp,  look- 
ing up  at  the  old  gateway,  and  showing 
in  the  moonlight  like  some  monstrous 
image  that  had  come  down  from  its 


126 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


niche  and  was  casting  a backward 
glance  at  its  old  house,  — “ faster  ! ” 

“It’s  a dreadful  heavy  load,  sir,” 
the  boy  pleaded.  “ I ’ve  come  on  very 
fast,  considering.” 

“ You  have  come  fast,  considering  ! ” 
retorted  Quilp.  “ You  creep,  you  dog  ; 
you  crawl,  you  measure  distance  like  a 
worm.  There  are  the  chimes  now,  — 
half  past  twelve.” 

He  stopped  to  listen,  and  then,  turn- 
ing upon  the  boy  with  a suddenness 
and  ferocity  that  made  him  start,  asked 
at  what  hour  that  London  coach  passed 
the  corner  of  the  road.  The  boy  re- 
plied, at  one. 

“Come  on,  then,”  said  Quilp,  “or  I 
shall  be  too  late.  Faster,  — do  you  hear 
me?  Faster.” 

The  boy  made  all  the  speed  he  could, 
and  Quilp  led  onward,  constantly  turn- 
ing back  to  threaten  him,  and  urge  him 
to  greater  haste.  Nell  did  not  dare  to 
move  until  they  were  out  of  sight  and 
hearing,  and  then  hurried  to  where  she 
had  left  her  grandfather,  feeling  as  if 
the  very  passing  of  the  dwarf  so  near 
him  must  have  filled  him  with  alarm 
and  terror.  But  he  was  sleeping  sound- 
ly, and  she  softly  withdrew. 

As  she  was  making  her  way  to  her 
own  bed,  she  determined  to  say  nothing 
of  this  adventure,  as,  upon  whatever 
errand  the  dwarf  had  come  (and  she 
feared  it  must  have  been  in  search  of 
them),  it  was  clear  by  his  inquiry  about 
the  London  coach  that  he  was  on  his 
way  homeward,  and  as  he  had  passed 
through  that  place,  it  was  but  reasona- 
ble to  suppose  that  they  were  safer  from 
his  inquiries  there  than  they  could  be 
elsewhere.  These  reflections  did  not  re- 
move her  own  alarm  ; for  she  had  been 
too  much  terrified  to  be  easily  com- 
posed, and  felt  as  if  she  were  hemmed 
in  by  a legion  of  Quilps,  and  the  very 
air  itself  were  filled  with  them. 

The  delight  of  the  Nobility  and  Gen- 
try and  the  patronized  of  Royalty  had, 
by  some  process  of  self-abridgment 
known  only  to  herself,  got  into  her 
travelling  bed,  where  she  was  snoring 
peacefully,  while  the  large  bonnet, 
carefully  disposed  upon  the  drum,  was 
revealing  its  glories  by  the  light  of  a 
dim  lamp  that  swung  from  the  roof. 


The  child’s  bed  was  already  made  upon 
the  floor,  and  it  was  a great  comfort  to 
her  to  hear  the  steps  removed  as  soon 
as  she  had  entered,  and  to  know  that 
all  easy  communication  between  per- 
sons outside  and  the  brass  knocker  was 
by  this  means  effectually  prevented. 
Certain  guttural  sounds,  too,  which 
from  time  to  time  ascended  through  the 
floor  of  the  caravan,  and  a rustling  of 
straw  in  the  same  direction,  apprised 
her  that  the  driver  was  couched  upon 
the  ground  beneath,  and  gave  her  an 
additional  feeling  of  security. 

Notwithstanding  these  protections, 
she  could  get  none  but  broken  sleep 
by  fits  and  starts  all  night,  for  fear 
of  Quilp,  who  throughout  her  uneasy 
dreams  was  somehow  connected  with 
the  wax-work,  or  was  wax-work  him- 
self, or  was  Mrs.  Jarley  and  wax- work 
too,  or  was  himself,  Mrs.  Jarley,  wax- 
work,  and  a barrel-organ  all  in  one,  and 
yet  not  exactly  any  of  them,  either.  At 
length,  towards  break  of  day,  that  deep 
sleep  came  upon  her  which  succeeds  to 
weariness  and  over-wratching,  and  which 
has  no  consciousness  but  one  of  over- 
powering and  irresistible  enjoyment. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Sleep  hung  upon  the  eyelids  of  the 
child  so  long  that,  when  she  awoke, 
Mrs.  Jarley  was  already  decorated  with 
her  large  bonnet,  and  actively  engaged 
in  preparing  breakfast.  She  received 
Nell’s  apology  for  being  so  late  with 
perfect  good-humor,  and  said  that  she 
should  not  have  roused  her  if  she  had 
slept  on  until  noon. 

“ Because  it  does  you  good,”  said 
the  lady  of  the  caravan,  “ when  you  ’re 
tired,  to  sleep  as  long  as  ever  you  can, 
and  get  the  fatigue  quite  off ; and  that ’s 
another  blessing  of  your  time  of  life,  — 
you  can  sleep  so  very  sound.” 

“ Have  you  had  a bad  night,  ma’am?” 
asked  Nell. 

“ I seldom  have  anything  else,  child,” 
replied  Mrs.  Jarley,  with  the  air  of  a 
martyr.  “I  sometimes  wonder  how  I 
bear  it.” 

Remembering  the  snores  which  had 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


127 


proceeded  from  that  cleft  in  the  caravan 
in  which  the  proprietress  of  the  wax- 
work  passed  the  night,  Nell  rather 
thought  she  must  have  been  dreaming 
of  lying  awake.  However,  she  ex- 
pressed herself  very  sorry  to  hear  such 
a dismal  account  of  her  state  of  health, 
and  shortly  afterwards  sat  down  with 
her  grandfather  and  Mrs.  Jarley  to 
breakfast.  The  meal  finished,  Nell 
assisted  to  wash  the  cups  and  saucers, 
and  put  them  in  their  proper  places  ; 
and,  these  household  duties  performed, 
Mrs.  Jarley  arrayed  herself  in  an  ex- 
ceedingly bright  shawl  for  the  purpose 
of  making  a progress  through  the  streets 
of  the  town. 

“ The  wan  will  come  on  to  bring  the 
boxes,”  said  Mrs.  Jarley,  “and  you 
had  better  come  in  it,  child.  I am 
obliged  to  walk,  very  much  against  my 
will  ; but  the  people  expect  it  of  me,  and 
public  characters  can’t  be  their  own  mas- 
ters and  mistresses  in  such  matters  as 
these.  How  do  I look,  child?” 

Nell  returned  a satisfactory  reply, 
and  Mrs.  Jarley,  after  sticking  a great 
many  pins  into  various  parts  of  her 
figure,  and  making  several  abortive  at- 
tempts to  obtain  a full  view  of  her  own 
back,  was  at  last  satisfied  with  her  ap- 
pearance, and  went  forth  majestically. 

The  caravan  followed  at  no  great  dis- 
tance. As  it  went  jolting  through  the 
streets,  Nell  peeped  from  the  window, 
curious  to  see  in  what  kind  of  place  they 
were,  and  yet  fearful  of  encountering  at 
every  turn  the  dreaded  face  of  Quilp. 

It  was  a pretty  large  town,  with  an  open 
square,  which  they  were  crawling  slowly 
across,  and  in  the  middle  of  which  was 
the  Town  Hall,  with  a clock-tower  and 
a weathercock.  There  were  houses 
of  stone,  houses  of  red  brick,  houses 
of  yellow  brick,  houses  of  lath  and 
plaster ; and  houses  of  wood,  many 
of  them  very  old,  with  withered  faces 
carved  upon  the  beams,  and  staring  down 
into  the  street.  These  had  very  little 
winking  windows,  and  low-arched  doors, 
and,  in  some  of  the  narrower  ways, 
quite  overhung  the  pavement.  The 
streets  were  very  clean,  very  sunny,  very 
empty,  and  very  dull.  A few  idle  men 
lounged  about  the  two  inns  and  the 
empty  market-place  and  the  trades-  I 


men’s  doors,  and  some  old  people  were 
dozing  in  chairs  outside  an  almshouse 
wall ; but  scarcely  any  passengers  who 
seemed  bent  on  going  anywhere,  or  to 
have  any  object  in  view,  went  by ; and 
if  perchance  some  straggler  did,  his 
footsteps  echoed  on  the  hot  bright  pave- 
ment for  minutes  afterwards.  Nothing 
seemed  to  be  going  on  but  the  clocks, 
and  they  had  such  drowsy  faces,  such 
heavy  lazy  hands,  and  such  cracked 
voices,  that  they  surely  must  have 
been  too  slow.  The  very  dogs  were  all 
asleep,  and  the  flies,  drunk  with  moist 
sugar  in  the  grocer’s  shop,  forgot  their 
wings  and  briskness,  and  baked  to  death 
in  dusty  corners  of  the  window. 

Rumbling  along  with  most  unwonted 
noise,  the  caravan  stopped  at  last  at 
the  place  of  exhibition,  where  Nell  dis- 
mounted amidst  an  admiring  group 
of  children,  who  evidently  supposed 
her  to  be  an  important  item  of  the 
curiosities,  and  were  fully  impressed 
with  the  belief  that  her  grandfather 
was  a cunning  device  in  wax.  The 
chests  were  taken  out  with  all  conven- 
ient despatch,  and  taken  in  to  be  un- 
locked by  Mrs.  Jarley,  who,  attended  by 
George  and  another  man  in  velveteen 
shorts  and  a drab  hat  ornamented  with 
turnpike  tickets,  were  waiting  to  dispose 
their  contents  (consisting  of  red  fes- 
toons and  other  ornamental  devices  in 
upholstery  work)  to  the  best  advantage 
in  the  decoration  of  the  room. 

They  all  got  to  work  without  loss  of 
time,  and  very  busy  they  were.  As  the 
stupendous  collection  were  yet  con- 
cealed by  cloths,  lest  the  envious  dust 
should  injure  their  complexions,  Nell 
bestirred  herself  to  assist  in  the  em- 
bellishment of  the  room,  in  which  her 
grandfather  also  was  of  great  service. 
The  two  men,  being  well  used  to  it,  did 
a great  deal  in  a short  time ; and  Mrs. 
Jarley  served  out  the  tin  tacks  from  a 
linen  pocket,  like  a toll-collector’s,  which 
she  wore  for  the  purpose,  and  encour- 
aged her  assistants  to  renewed  exertion. 

While  -they  were  thus  employed,  a 
tallish  gentleman  with  a hook  nose  and 
black  hair,  dressed  in  a military  surtout 
very  short  and  tight  in  the  sleeves,  and 
which  had  once  been  frogged  and  braid- 
ed all  over,  but  was  now  sadly  shorn  of 


128 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


its  garniture  and  quite  threadbare,  — 
dressed  too  in  ancient  gray  pantaloons 
fitting  tight  to  the  leg,  and  a pair  of 
pumps  in  the  winter  of  their  existence, 
— looked  in  at  the  door,  and  smiled 
affably.  Mrs.  Jarley’s  back  being  then 
towards  him,  the  military  gentleman 
shook  his  forefinger  as  a sign  that  her 
myrmidons  wrere  not  to  apprise  her 
of  his  presence,  and,  stealing  up  close 
behind  her,  tapped  her  on  the  neck, 
and  cried  playfully,  “ Boh  ! ” 

“ What,  Mr.  Slum  ! ” cried  the  lady 
of  the  wax-work.  “ Lor  ! who ’d  have 
thought  of  seeing  you  here  ! ” 

“’Pon  my  soul  and  honor,”  said  Mr. 
Slum,  “that’s  a good  remark.  ’Pon 
my  soul  and  honor,  that ’s  a wise  remark. 
Who  would  have  thought  it  ! George, 
my  faithful  feller,  how  are  you  ? ” 

George  received  this  advance  with  a 
surly  indifference,  observing  that  he  was 
well  enough  for  the  matter  of  that,  and 
hammering  lustily  all  the  time. 

“ I came  here,”  said  the  military  gen- 
tleman, turning  to  Mrs.  Jarley,  — “ ’pon 
my  soul  and  honor,  I hardly  know  what 
I came  here  for.  It  would  puzzle  me 
to  tell  you,  it  would  by  Gad.  I wanted 
a little  inspiration,  a little  freshening 
up,  a little  change  of  ideas,  and  — 
’Pon  my  soul  and  honor,”  said  the 
military  gentleman,  checking  himself 
and  looking  round  the  room,  “what  a 
devilish  classical  thing  this  is  ! By 
Gad,  it’s  quite  Minervian!” 

“It’ll  look  well  enough  when  it 
comes  to  be  finished,”  observed  Mrs. 
Jarley. 

“ Well  enough ! ” said  Mr.  Slum. 
“ Will  you  believe  me  when  I say  it’s 
the  delight  of  my  life  to  have  dabbled 
in  poetry,  when  I think  I ’ve  exercised 
my  pen  upon  this  charming  theme? 
By  the  way — any  orders?  Is  there 
any  little  thing  I can  do  for  you  ? ” 

“ It  comes  so  very  expensive,  sir,” 
replied  Mrs.  Jarley,  “ and  I really  don’t 
think  it  does  much  good.” 

“ Hush  ! No,  no  ! ” returned  Mr. 
Slum,  elevating  his  hand.  “.No  fibs, 

I ’ll  not  hear  it.  Don’t  say  it  don’t  do 
good.  Don’t  say  it.  I know  better  ! ” 
“I  don’t  think  it  does,”  said  Mrs. 
Jarley. 

“ Ha,  ha  ! ” cried  Mr.  Slum,  “you  ’re 


giving  way,  you  ’re  coming  down.  Ask 
the  perfumers,  ask  the  blacking-makers, 
ask  the  hatters,  ask  the  old  lottery- 
office  keepers,  — ask  any  man  among 
’em  what  my  poetry  has  done  for  him, 
and,  mark  my  words,  he  blesses  the 
name  of  Slum.  If  he ’s  an  honest  man, 
he  raises  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  blesses 
the  name  of  Slum,  — mark  that  ! You 
are  acquainted  with  Westminster  Ab- 
bey, Mrs.  Jarley?” 

“ Yes,  surely.” 

“Then,  upon  my  soul  and  honor, 
ma’am,  you  ’ll  find  in  a certain  angle  of 
that  dreary  pile,  called  Poet’s  Corner, 
a few  smaller  names  than  Slum,”  re- 
torted that  gentleman,  tapping  himself 
expressively  on  the  forehead  to  imply 
that  there  was  some  slight  quantity  of 
brains  behind  it.  “I’ve  got  a little 
trifle  here,  now,”  said  Mr.  Slum,  taking 
off  his  hat  w'hich  was  full  of  scraps  of 
paper,  — a little  trifle  here,  thrown  off  in 
the  heat  of  the  moment,  which  I should 
say  was  exactly  the  thing  you  wanted  to 
set  this  place  on  fire  with.  It’s  an  acros- 
tic, — the  name  at  this  moment  is  W’ar- 
ren,  but  the  idea’s  a convertible  one, 
and  a positive  inspiration  for  Jarley. 
Have  the  acrostic?” 

“ I suppose  it ’s  very  dear,”  said  Mrs. 
Jarley. 

“Five  shillings,”  returned  Mr.  Slum, 
using  his  pencil  as  a toothpick. 
“ Cheaper  than  any  prose.” 

“ I couldn’t  give  more  than  three,” 
said  Mrs.  Jarley. 

“ — And  six,”  retorted  Slum.  “Come. 
Three  and  six.” 

Mrs.  Jarley  was  not  proof  against 
the  poet’s  insinuating  manner,  and  Mr. 
Slum  entered  the  order  in  a small  note- 
book as  a three-and-sixpenny  one.  Mr. 
Slum  then  withdrew  to  alter  the  acros- 
tic, after  taking  a most  affectionate 
leave  of  his  patroness,  and  promising  to 
return,  as  soon  as  he  possibly  could, 
with  a fair  copy  for  the  printer. 

As  his  presence  had  not  interfered 
with  or  interrupted  the  preparations, 
they  were  now  far  advanced,  and  were 
completed  shortly  after  his  departure. 
When  the  festoons  were  all  put  up  as 
tastily  as  they  "might  be,  the  stupendous 
collection  was  uncovered,  and  therq 
were  displayed,  on  a raised  platform 


me  library 

OF  TtiF 

Mimwr  Bf  mmols 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


129 


some  two  feet  from  the  floor,  running 
round  the  room  and  parted  from  the 
rude  public  by  a crimson  rope  breast 
high,  divers  sprightly  effigies  of  cele- 
brated characters,  singly  and  in  groups, 
clad  in  glittering  dresses  of  various 
climes  and  times,  and  standing  more 
or  less  unsteadily  upon  their  legs,  with 
their  eyes  very  wide  open,  and  their 
nostrils  very  much  inflated,  and  the 
muscles  of  their  legs  and  arms  very 
strongly  developed,  and  all  their  coun- 
tenances expressing  great  surprise.  All 
the  gentlemen  were  very  pigeon-breast- 
ed and  very  blue  about  the  beards  ; and 
all  the  ladies  were  miraculous  figures ; 
and  all  the  ladies  and  all  the  gentlemen 
were  looking  intensely  nowhere,  and 
staring  with  extraordinary  earnestness 
at  nothing. 

When  Nell  had  exhausted  her  first 
raptures  at  this  glorious  sight,  Mrs. 
Jarley  ordered  the  room  to  be  cleared 
of  all  but  herself  and  the  child,  and, 
sitting  herself  down  in  an  arm-chair 
in  the  centre,  formally  invested  Nell 
with  a willow  wand,  long  used  by  her- 
self for  pointing  out  the  characters,  and 
was  at  great  pains  to  instruct  her  in  her 
duty. 

“That,”  said  Mrs.  Jarley  in  her  ex- 
hibition tone,  as  Nell  touched  a figure 
at  the  beginning  of  the  platform,  “is  an 
unfortunate  Maid  of  Honor,  in  the  Time 
of  Queen  Elizabeth,  who  died  from 
pricking  her  finger  in  consequence  of 
working  upon  a Sunday.  Observe  the 
blood  which  is  trickling  from  her  finger ; 
also  the  gold-eyed  needle  of  the  period, 
with  which  she  is  at  work.” 

All  this  Nell  repeated  twice  or  thrice, 
pointing  to  the  finger  and  the  needle  at 
the  right  times ; and  then  passed  on  to 
the  next. 

“That,  ladies  and  gentlemen,”  said 
Mrs.  Jarley,  “is  Jasper  Packlemerton 
of  atrocious  memory,  who  courted  and 
married  fourteen  wives,  and  destroyed 
them  all  by  tickling  the  soles  of  their 
feet  when  they  were  sleeping  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  innocence  and  virtue.  On 
being  brought  to  the  scaffold  and  asked 
if  he  was  sorry  for  what  he  had  done, 
he  replied,  yes,  he  was  sorry  for  having 
let  ’em  off  so  easy,  and  hoped  all  Chris- 
tian husbands  would  pardon  him  the 


offence.  Let  this  be  a warning,  to  all 
young  ladies  to  be  particular  in  the 
character  of  the  gentlemen  of  their 
choice.  Observe  that  his  fingers  are 
curled  as  if  in  the  act  of  tickling,  and 
that  his  face  is  represented  with  a wink, 
as  he  appeared  when  committing  his 
barbarous  murders.” 

When  Nell  knew  all  about  Mr.  Pack- 
lemerton, and  could  say  it  without  falter- 
ing, Mrs.  Jarley  passed  on  to  the  fat  man, 
and  then  to  the  thin  man,  the  tall  man, 
the  short  man,  the  old  lady  who  died  of 
dancing  at  a hundred  and  thirty-two,  the 
wild  boy  of  the  woods,  the  woman  who 
poisoned  fourteen  families  with  pickled 
walnuts,  and  other  historical  characters 
and  interesting  but  misguided  individ- 
uals. And  so  well  did  Nell  profit  by 
her  instructions,  and  so  apt  was  she  to 
remember  them,  that  by  the  time  they 
had  been  shut  up  together  for  a couple 
of  hours,  she  was  in  full  possession  of 
the  history  of  the  whole  establishment, 
and  perfectly  competent  to  the  enlight- 
enment of  visitors. 

M rs.  J arley  was  not  slow  to  express  her 
admiration  at  this  happy  result,  and  car- 
ried her  young  friend  and  pupil  to  inspect 
the  remaining  arrangements  within  doors, 
by  virtue  of  which  the  passage  had  been 
already  converted  into  a grove  of  green 
baize,  hung  with  the  inscriptions  she  had 
already  seen  (Mr.  Slum’s  productions), 
and  a highly  ornamented  table  placed  at 
the  upper  end  for  Mrs.  Jarley  herself,  at 
which  she  was  to  preside  and  take  the 
money,  in  company  with  his  Majesty 
King  George  the  Third,  Mr.  Grimaldi 
as  clown,  Mary  Queen  of  Scotts,  an 
anonymous  gentleman  of  the  Quaker 
ersuasion,  and  Mr.  Pitt  holding  in  his 
and  a correct  model  of  the  bill  for  the 
imposition  of  the  window  duty.  The 
preparations  without  doors  had  not 
been  neglected  either  : a nun  of  great 
personal  attractions  was  telling  her 
beads  on  the  little  portico  over  the 
door ; and  a brigand  with  the  blackest 
possible  head  of  hair,  and  the  clearest 
possible  complexion,  was  at  that  mo- 
ment going  round  the  town  in  a cart, 
consulting  the  miniature  of  a lady. 

It  now  only  remained  that  Mr.  Slum’s 
compositions  should  be  judiciously  dis- 
tributed ; that  the  pathetic  effusions 


9 


i3o 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


should  find  their  way  to  all  private 
houses  and  tradespeople ; and  that  the 
parody  commencing,  “ If  I know’d  a 
donkey,”  should  be  confined  to  the 
taverns,  and  circulated  only  among  the 
lawyers’  clerks  and  choice  spirits  of 
the  place.  When  this  had  been  done, 
and  Mrs.  Jarley  had  waited  upon  the 
boarding-schools  in  person,  with  a 
handbill  composed  expressly  for  them, 
in  which  it  was  distinctly  proved  that 
wax-work  refined  the  mind,  cultivated 
the  taste,  and  enlarged  the  sphere  of 
the  human  understanding,  that  inde- 
fatigable lady  sat  down  to  dinner,  and 
drank  out  of  the  suspicious  bottle  to  a 
flourishing  campaign. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Unquestionably  Mrs.  Jarley  had 
an  inventive  genius.  In  the  midst  of 
the  various  devices  for  attracting  visitors 
to  the  exhibition,  little  Nell  was  not 
forgotten.  The  light  cart  in  which  the 
brigand  usually  made  his  perambula- 
tions being  gayly  dressed  with  flags 
and  streamers,  and  the  brigand  placed 
therein,  contemplating  the  miniature  of 
his  beloved  as  usual,  Nell  was  accom- 
modated with  a seat  beside  him,  deco- 
rated with  artificial  flowers,  and  in  this 
state  and  ceremony  rode  slowly  through 
the  town  every  morning,  dispersing 
handbills  from  a basket,  to  the  sound 
of  drum  and  trumpet.  The  beauty  of 
the  child,  coupled  with  her  gentle  and 
timid  bearing,  produced  quite  a sensa- 
tion in  the  little  country  place.  The 
brigand,  heretofore  a source  of  exclu- 
sive interest  in  the  streets,  became  a 
mere  secondary  consideration,  and  to 
be  important  only  as  a part  of  the  show 
of  which  she  was  the  chief  attraction. 
Grown-up  folks  began  to  be  interested 
in  the  bright-eyed  girl,  and  some  score 
of  little  boys  fell  desperately  in  love, 
and  constantly  left  enclosures  of  nuts 
and  apples,  directed  in  small-text,  at 
the  wax-work  door. 

This  desirable  impression  was  not 
lost  on  Mrs.  Jarley,  who,  lest  Nell 
should  become  too  cheap,  soon  sent  the 
brigand  out  alone  again,  and  kept  her 


in  the  exhibition-room,  where  she  de- 
scribed the  figures  every  half-hour  to 
the  great  satisfaction  of  admiring  audi- 
ences. And  these  audiences  were  of 
a very  superior  description,  including 
a great  many  young  ladies’  boarding- 
schools,  whose  favor  Mrs.  Jarley  had 
been  at  great  pains  to  conciliate,  by 
altering  the  face  and  costume  of  Mr. 
Grimaldi,  as  clown,  to  represent  Mr. 
Lindley  Murray  as  he  appeared  when 
engaged  in  the  composition  of  his  Eng- 
lish Grammar,  and  turning  a murderess 
of  great  renown  into  Mrs.  Hannah 
More,  — both  of  which  likenesses  were 
admitted  by  Miss  Monflathers,  who  was 
at  the  head  of  the  head  Boarding  and 
Day  Establishment  in  the  town,  and 
who  condescended  to  take  a Private 
View  with  eight  chosen  young  ladies, 
to  be  quite  startling  from  their  extreme 
correctness.  Mr.  Pitt  in  a nightcap  and 
bedgown,  and  without  his  boots,  repre- 
sented the  poet  Cowper  with  perfect  ex- 
actness : and  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  in  a 
dark  wig,  white  shirt-collar,  and  male  at- 
tire, was  such  a complete  image  of  Lord 
Byron  that  the  young  ladies  quite 
screamed  when  they  saw  it.  Miss  Mon- 
flathers, however,  rebuked  this  enthusi- 
asm, and  took  occasion  to  reprove  Mrs. 
Jarley  for  not  keeping  her  collection 
more  select ; observing  that  his  Lord- 
ship  had  held  certain  opinions  quite  in- 
compatible with  wax-work  honors,  and 
adding  something  about  a Dean  and 
Chapter,  which  Mrs.  Jarley  did  not 
understand. 

Although  her  duties  were  sufficiently 
laborious,  Nell  found  in  the  lady  of  the 
caravan  a very  kind  and  considerate 
person,  who  had  not  only  a peculiar 
relish  for  being  comfortable  herself,  but 
for  making  everybody  about  her  com- 
fortable also  ; which  latter  taste,  it  may 
be  remarked,  is,  even  in  persons  who 
live  in  much  finer  places  than  caravans, 
a far  more  rare  and  uncommon  one  than 
the  first,  and  is  not  by  any  means  its 
necessary  consequence.  As  her  popu- 
larity procured  her  various  little  fees 
from  the  visitors,  on  which  her  patroness 
never  demanded  any  toll,  and  as  her 
grandfather  too  was  well  treated  and 
useful,  she  had  no  cause  of  anxiety  in 
connection  with  the  wax-work,  beyond 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


that  which  sprung  from  her  recollection 
of  Quilp,  and  her  fears  that  he  might 
return  and  one  day  suddenly  encounter  » 
them. 

Quilp,  indeed,  was  a perpetual  night- 
mare to  the  child,  who  was  constantly 
haunted  by  a vision  of  his  ugly  face  and 
stunted  figure.  She  slept,  for  their 
better  security,  in  the  room  where  the 
wax-figures  were,  and  she  never  retired 
to  this  place  at  night  but  she  tortured 
herself — she  could  not  help  it  — with 
imagining  a resemblance,  in  some  one 
or  other  of  their  death-like  faces,  to  the 
dwarf,  and  this  fancy  would  sometimes 
so  gain  upon  her  that  she  would  almost 
believe  he  had  removed  the  figure  and 
stood  within  the  clothes.  Then  there 
were  so  many  of  them  with  their  great 
glassy  eyes ; and,  as  they  stood  one 
behind  the  other  all  about  her  bed,  they 
looked  so  like  living  creatures,  and  yet  so 
unlike  in  their  grim  stillness  and  silence, 
that  she  had  a kind  of  terror  of  them 
for  their  own  sakes,  and  would  often  lie 
watching  their  dusky  figures  until  she 
was  obliged  to  rise  and  light  a candle, 
or  go  and  sit  at  the  open  window  and 
feel  a companionship  in  the  bright  stars. 
At  these  times  she  would  recall  the  old 
house  and  the  window  at  which  she 
used  to  sit  alone ; and  then  she  would 
think  of  poor  Kit  and  all  his  kindness, 
until  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and 
she  would  weep  and  smile  together 

Often  and  anxiously,  at  this  silent 
hour,  her  thoughts  reverted  to  her 
grandfather,  and  she  would  winder 
how  much  he  remembered  of  their 
former  life,  and  whether  he  was  ever 
really  mindful  of  the  change  in  their 
condition,  apd  of  their  late  helplessness 
and  destitution.  When  they  were  wan- 
dering about,  she  seldom  thought  of 
this,  but  now  she  could  not  help  con- 
sidering what  would  become  of  them  if 
he  fell  sick,  or  her  own  strength  were  to 
fail  her.  He  was  very  patient  and  will- 
ing, happy  to  execute  any  little  task, 
and  glad  to  be  of  use  ; but  he  was  in 
the  same  listless  state,  with  no  prospect 
of  improvement,  — a mere  child,  — a 
oor,  thoughtless,  vacant  creature,  — a 
armless,  fond  old  man,  susceptible  of 
tender  love  and  regard  for  her,  and  of 
pleasant  and  painful  impressions,  but 


131 

alive  to  nothing  more.  It  made  her 
very  sad  to  know  that  this  was  so,  — so 
sad  to  see  it  that  sometimes  when  he 
sat  idly  by,  smiling  and  nodding  to  her 
when  she  looked  round,  or  when  he 
caressed  some  little  child  and  carried  it 
to  and  fro,  as  he  was  fond  of  doing  by 
the  hour  together,  perplexed  by  its  sim- 
ple questions,  yet  patient  under  his  own 
infirmity,  and  seeming  almost  conscious 
of  it  too,  and  humbled  even  before  the 
mind  of  an  infant,  — so  sad  it  made  her 
to  see  him  thus,  that  she  would  burst 
into  tears,  and,  withdrawing  into  some 
secret  place,  fall  down  upon  her  knees, 
and  pray  that  he  might  be  restored. 

But  the  bitterness  of  her  grief  was 
not  in  beholding  him  in  this  condition, 
when  he  was  at  least  content  and  tran- 
quil, nor  in  her  solitary  meditations  on 
his  altered  state,  though  these  were 
trials  for  a young  heart.  Cause  for 
deeper  and  heavier  sorrow  was  yet  to 
come. 

One  evening,  a holiday  night  with 
them,  Nell  and  her  grandfather  went 
out  to  walk.  They  had  been  rather 
closely  confined  for  some  days,  and,  the 
weather  being  warm,  they  strolled  a 
long  distance.  Clear  of  the  town,  they 
took  a footpath  which  struck  through 
some  pleasant  fields,  judging  that  it 
would  terminate  in  the  road  they  quitted 
and  enable  them  to  return  that  way.  It 
made,  however,  a much  wider  circuit 
than  they  had  supposed,  and  thus  they 
were  tempted  onward  until  sunset, 
when  they  reached  the  track  of  which 
they  were  in  search,  and  stopped  to 
rest. 

It  had  been  gradually  getting  over- 
cast, and  now  the  sky  was  dark  and 
lowering,  save  where  the  glory  of  the 
departing  sun  piled  up  masses  of  gold 
and  burning  fire,  decaying  embers  of 
which  gleamed  here  and  there  through 
the  black  veil,  and  shone  redly  down 
upon  the  earth.  The  w'ind  began  to 
moan  in  hollow  murmurs,  as  the  sun 
went  down,  carrying  glad  day  elsewhere  ; 
and  a train  of  dull  clouds,  coming  up 
against  it,  menaced  thunder  and  light- 
ning. Large  drops  of  rain  soon  began 
to  fall ; and,  as  the  storm-clouds  came 
sailing  onward,  others  supplied  the  void 
they  left  behind,  and  spread  over  all  the 


132 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


sky.  Then  was  heard  the  low  rumbling 
of  distant  thunder,  then  the  lightning 
quivered,  and  then  the  darkness  of  an 
hour  seemed  to  have  gathered  in  an 
instant. 

Fearful  of  taking  shelter  beneath  a 
tree  or  hedge,  the  old  man  and  the 
child  hurried  along  the  high-road,  hop- 
ing to  find  some  house  in  which  they 
could  seek  a refuge  from  the  storm, 
which  had  now  burst  forth  in  earnest, 
and  every  moment  increased  in  vio- 
lence. Drenched  with  the  pelting  rain, 
confused  by  the  deafening  thunder,  and 
bewildered  by  the  glare  of  the  forked 
lightning,  they  would  have  passed  a 
solitary  house  without  being  aware  of 
its  vicinity,  had  not  a man,  who  was 
standing  at  the  door,  called  lustily  to 
them  to  enter. 

“Your  ears  ought  to  be  better  than 
other  folks’  at  any  rate,  if  you  make  so 
little  of  the  chance  of  being  struck 
blind,”  he  said,  retreating  from  the 
door,  and  shading  his  eyes  with  his 
hands  as  the  jagged  lightning  came 
again.  “What  were  you  going  past 
for,  eh?”  he  added,  as  he  closed  the 
door,  and  led  the  way  along  a passage 
to  a room  behind. 

“We  didn’t  see  the  house,  sir,  till 
we  heard  you  calling,”  Nell  replied. 

“ No  wonder,”  said  the  man,  “with 
this  lightning  in  one’s  eyes,  by  the  by. 
You  had  better  stand  by  the  fire  here, 
and  dry  yourselves  a bit.  You  can  call 
for  what  you  like  if  you  want  anything. 
If  you  don’t  want  anything,  you  ’re  not 
obliged  to  give  an  order.  Don’t  be 
afraid  of  that.  This  is  a public-house, 
that ’s  all.  The  Valiant  Soldier  is  pret- 
ty well  known  hereabouts.” 

“ Is  this  house  called  the  Valiant 
Soldier,  sir?”  asked  Nell. 

“ I thought  everybody  knew  that,” 
replied  the  landlord.  “ Where  have 
you  come  from,  if  you  don’t  know  the 
Valiant  Soldier  as  well  as  the  church 
catechism?  This  is  the  Valiant  Soldier 
by  James  Groves,  — Jem  Groves, — hon- 
est Jem  Groves,  as  is  a man  of  un- 
blemished moral  character,  and  has  a 
good  dry  skittle-ground.  If  any  man 
has  got  anything  to  say  again  Jem 
Groves,  let  him  say  it  to  Jem  Groves, 
and  Jem  Groves  can  accommodate  him 


with  a customer  on  any  terms  from  four 
pound  a side  to  forty.” 

With  these  words,  the  speaker  tapped 
himself  on  the  waistcoat,  to  intimate 
that  he  was  the  Jem  Groves  so  highly 
eulogized ; sparred  scientifically  at  a 
counterfeit  Jem  Groves,  who  was  spar- 
ring at  society  in  general  from  a black 
frame  over  the  chimney-piece ; and, 
applying  a half-emptied  glass  of  spirits 
and  water  to  his  lips,  drank  Jem  Groves’s 
health. 

The  night  being  warm,  there  was  a 
large  screen  drawn  across  the  room, 
for  a barrier  against  the  heat  of  the  fire. 
It  seemed  as  if  somebody  on  the  other 
side  of  this  screen  had  been  insinuating 
doubts  of  Mr.  Groves’s  prowess,  and 
had  thereby  given  rise  to  these  egotis- 
tical expressions,  for  Mr.  Groves  wound 
up  his  defiance  by  giving  a loud  knock 
upon  it  with  his  knuckles,  and  pausing 
for  a reply  from  the  other  side. 

“ There  ain’t  many  men,”  said  Mr. 
Groves,  no  answer  being  returned, 
“who  would  ventur’  to  cross  Jem 
Groves  under  his  own  roof.  There ’s 
only  one  man,  I know,  that  has  nerve 
enough  for  that,  and  that  man ’s  not  a 
hundred  mile  from  here  neither.  But 
he ’s  worth  a dozen  men,  and  I let  him 
say  of  me  whatever  he  likes  in  conse- 
quence,— he  knows  that.” 

In  return  for  this  complimentary  ad- 
dress, a very  gruff  hoarse  voice  bade 
Mr.  Groves  “ hold  his  nise  and  light  a 
candle.”  And  the  same  voice  remarked 
that  the  same  gentleman  “ need  n’t 
waste  his  breath  in  brag,  for  most  peo- 
le  knew  pretty  well  what  sort  of  stuff 
e was  made  of.” 

“Nell,  they’re  — they’re  playing 
cards,”  whispered  the  old  man,  sudden- 
ly interested.  “ Don’t  you  hear  them  ? ” 
“ Look  sharp  with  that  candle,”  said 
the  voice  ; “ it ’s  as  much  as  I can  do 
to  see  the  pips  on  the  cards  as  it  is  ; 
and  get  this  shutter  closed  as  quick  as 
you  can,  will  you  ? Your  beer  will  be 
the  worse  for  to-night’s  thunder,  I ex- 
pect. — Game  ! Seven  and  sixpence  to 
me,  old  Isaac.  Hand  over.” 

“Do  you  hear,  Nell, — do  you  hear 
them  ? ” whispered  the  old  man  again, 
with  increased  earnestness,  as  the 
money  chinked  upon  the  table. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


133 


“ I have  n’t  seen  such  a storm  as 
this,”  said  «.  sharp,  cracked  voice  of 
most  disagreeable  quality,  when  a tre- 
mendous peal  of  thunder  had  died 
away,  “ since  the  night  when  old  Luke 
Withers  won  thirteen  times  running, 
on  the  red.  We  all  said  he  had  the 
Devil’s  luck  and  his  own  ; and  as  it  was 
the  kind  of  night  for  the  Devil  to  be 
out  and  busy,  I suppose  he  was  looking 
over  his  shoulder,  if  anybody  could 
have  seen  him.” 

“Ah!”  returned  the  gruff  voice; 
“ for  all  old  Luke’s  winning  through 
thick  and  thin  of  late  years,  I remem- 
ber the  time  when  he  was  the  unlucki- 
est  and  unfortunatest  of  men.  He  nev- 
er took  a dice-box  in  his  hand,  or  held 
a card,  but  he  was  plucked,  pigeoned, 
and  cleaned  out  completely.” 

“ Do  you  hear  what  he  says?  ” whis- 
pered the  old  man.  “Do  you  hear 
that,  Nell?” 

The  child  saw  with  astonishment  and 
alarm  that  his  whole  appearance  had 
undergone  a complete  change.  His 
face  was  flushed  and  eager,  his  eyes 
were  strained,  his'teeth  set,  his  breath 
came  short  and  thick,  and  the  hand  he 
laid  upon  her  arm  trembled  so  violently 
that  she  shook  beneath  its  grasp. 

“ Eear  witness,”  he  muttered,  look- 
ing upward,  “that  I always  said  it; 
that  I knew  it,  dreamed  of  it,  felt  it 
was  the  truth,  and  that  it  must  be  so  ! 
What  money  have  we,  Nell?  Come  ! 

I saw  you  with  money  yesterday.  What 
money  have  we  ? Give  it  to  me.” 

“ No,  no  ; let  me  keep  it,  grandfa- 
ther,” said  the  frightened  child.  “ Let 
us  go  away  from  here.  Do  not  mind 
the  rain.  Pray  let  us  go.” 

“Give  it  to  me,  I say,”  returned  the 
old  man,  fiercely.  “ Hush,  hush,  don’t 
cry,  Nell.  If  I spoke  sharply,  dear,  I 
did  n’t  mean  it.  It ’s  for  thy  good.  I 
have  wronged  thee,  Nell,  but  I will 
right  thee  yet,  I will  indeed.  Where 
is  the  money  ? ” 

“Do  not  take  it,”  said  the  child. 
“Pray  do  not  take  it,  dear.  For  both 
our  sakes  let  me  keep  it,  or  let  me 
throw  it  away,  — better  let  me  throw  it 
away  than  you  take  it  now.  Let  us 
go;  do  let  us  go.” 

“ Give  me  the  money,”  returned  the 


old  man  ; “ I must  have  it.  There  — 
there  — that’s  my  dear  Nell.  I’ll 
right  thee  one  day,  child,  — I ’ll  right 
thee,  never  fear ! ” 

She  took  from  her  pocket  a little 
purse.  He  seized  it  with  the  same 
rapid  impatience  which  had  character- 
ized his  speech,  and  hastily  made  his 
way  to  the  other  side  of  the  screen.  It 
was  impossible  to  restrain  him,  and  the 
trembling  child  followed  close  behind. 

The  landlord  had  placed  a light  upon 
the  table,  and  sjteas  engaged  in  drawing 
the  curtain  of  the  window.  The  speak- 
ers whom  they  had  heard  were  two 
men,  who  had  a pack  of  cards  and  some 
silver  money  between  them,  while  upon 
the  screen  itself  the  games  they  had 
played  were  scored  in  chalk.  The  man 
with  the  rough  voice  was  a burly  fellow 
of  middle  age,  with  large  black  whis- 
kers, broad  cheeks,  a coarse  wide  mouth, 
and  bull  neck,  which  was  pretty  freely 
displayed,  as  his  shirt-collar  was  only 
confined  by  a loose  red  neckerchief. 
He  wore  his  hat,  which  was  of  a brown- 
ish-white, and  had  beside  him  a thick 
knotted  stick.  The  other  man,  whom 
his  companion  had  called  Isaac,  was  of 
a more  slender  figure,  — stooping,  and 
high  in  the  shoulders,  — with  a very 
ill-favored  face,  and  a most  sinister  and 
villanous  squint. 

“ Now’,  old  gentleman,”  said  Isaac, 
looking  round.  “ Do  you  know  either 
of  us  ? This  side  of  the  screen  is  pri- 
vate, sir.” 

“No  offence,  I hope,”  returned  the 
old  man. 

“ But  by  G — , sir,  there  is  offence,” 
said  the  other,  interrupting  him,  “when 
you  intrude  yourself  upon  a couple  of 
gentlemen  who  are  particularly  en- 
gaged.” 

“ I had  no  intention  to  offend,”  said 
the  old  man,  looking  anxiously  at  the 
cards.  “ I thought  that  — ” 

“ But  you  had  no  right  to  think,  sir,” 
retorted  the  other.  “ What  the  devil 
has  a man  at  your  time  of  life  to  do  with 
thinking  ? ” 

“ Now,  bully  boy,”  said  the  stout  man, 
raising  his  eyes  from  his  cards  for  the 
first  time,  “can’t  you  let  him  speak?” 

The  landlord,  who  had  apparently  re- 
solved to  remain  neutral  until  he  knew 


134 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


which  side  of  the  question  the  stout 
man  would  espouse,  chimed  in  at  this 
place  with,  “ Ah,  to  be  sure,  can’t  you 
let  him  speak,  Isaac  List  ? ” 

“Can’t  I let  him  speak?”  sneered 
Isaac  in  reply,  mimicking  as  nearly  as 
he  could,  in  his  shrill  voice,  the  tones 
of  the  landlord.  “ Yes,  I can  let  him 
speak,  Jemmy  Groves.” 

“Well  then,  do  it,  will  you?”  said 
the  landlord. 

Mr.  List’s  squint  assumed  a porten- 
tous character,  which  sefemed  to  threat- 
en a prolongation  of  this  controversy, 
when  his  companion,  who  had  been 
looking  sharply  at  the  old  man,  put  a 
timely  stop  to  it. 

“ Who  knows,”  said  he,  with  a cun- 
ning look,  “ but  the  gentleman  may 
have  civilly  meant  to  ask  if  he  might 
have  the  honor  to  take  a hand  with 
us  ? ” 

“ I did  mean  it,”  cried  the  old  man. 
“That  is  what  I mean.  That  is  what 
I want  now  ! ” 

“ I thought  so,”  returned  the  same 
man.  “ Then  who  knows  but  the 
gentleman,  anticipating  our  objection 
to  play  for  love,  civilly  desired  to  play 
for  money  ? ” 

The  old  man  replied  by  shaking  the 
little  purse  in  his  eager  hand,  and  then 
throwing  it  down  upon  the  table,  and 
gathering  up  the  cards  as  a miser  would 
clutch  at  gold. 

“ O,  that  indeed,”  said  Isaac;  “if 
that ’s  what  the  gentleman  meant,  I 
beg  the  gentleman’s  pardon.  Is  this 
the  gentleman’s  little  purse  ? A very 
pretty  little  purse.  Rather  a light 
purse,”  added  Isaac,  throwing  it  into 
the  air  and  catching  it  dexterously, 
“but  enough  to  amuse  a gentleman  for 
half  an  hour  or  so.” 

“ We  ’ll  make  a four-handed  game  of 
it,  and  take  in  Groves,”  said  the  stout 
man.  “ Come,  Jemmy.” 

The  landlord,  who  conducted  himself 
like  one  who  was  well  used  to  such  little 
parties,  approached  the  table  and  took 
his  seat.  The  child,  in  a perfect  agony, 
drew  her  grandfather  aside,  and  im- 
plored him,  even  then,  to  come  away. 

“ Come  ; and  we  may  be  so  happy,” 
said  the  child. 

“ We  will  be  happy,”  replied  the  old 


man,  hastily.  “ Let  me  go,  Nell.  The 
means  of  happiness  are  on  the  cards 
and  in  the  dice.  We  must  rise  from 
little  winnings  to  great.  There ’s  little 
to  be  won  here  ; but  great  will  come  in 
time.  I shall  but  win  back  my  own, 
and  it ’s  all  for  thee,  my  darling.” 

“ God  help  us  ! ” cried  the  child. 
“ Oh  ! what  hard  fortune  brought  us 
here  ! ” 

“ Hush  ! ” rejoined  the  old  man,  lay- 
ing his  hand  upon  her  mouth  ; “ Fortune 
will  not  bear  chiding.  We  must  not 
reproach  her,  or  she  shuns  us ; I have 
found  that  out.” 

“ Now,  mister,”  said  the  stout  man. 
“If  you  ’re  not  coming  yourself,  give 
us  the  cards,  will  you?  ” 

“ I am  coming,”  cried  the  old  man. 
“ Sit  thee  down,  Nell,  — sit  thee  down 
and  look  on.  Be  of  good  heart,  it ’s  all 
for  thee  — all  — every  penny.  I don’t 
tell  them,  no,  no,  or  else  they  would  n’t 
play,  dreading  the  chance  that  such  a 
cause  must  give  me.  Look  at  them. 
See  what  they  are  and  what  thou  art. 
Who  doubts  that  we  must  win  ! ” 

“The  gentleman  has  thought  better 
of  it,  and  is  n’t  coming,”  said  Isaac, 
making  as  though  he  would  rise  from 
the  table.  “ I ’m  sorry  the  gentle- 
man ’s  daunted,  — nothing  venture  noth- 
ing have,  — but  the  gentleman  knows 
best.” 

“Why,  I am  ready.  You  have  all 
been  slow  but  me,”  said  the  old  man. 
“ I wonder  who ’s  more  anxious  to 
begin  than  I.” 

As  he  spoke  he  drew  a chair  to  the 
table  ; and  the  other  three  closing 
round  it  at  the  same  time,  the  game 
commenced. 

The  child  sat  by,  and  watched  its 
progress  with  a troubled  mind.  Re- 
gardless of  the  run  of  luck,  and  mind- 
ful only  of  the  desperate  passion  which 
had  its  hold  upon  her  grandfather, 
losses  and  gains  were  to  her  alike. 
Exulting  in  some  brief  triumph,  or  cast 
down  by  a defeat,  there  he  sat  so  wild 
and  restless,  so  feverishly  and  intensely 
anxious,  so  terribly  eager,  so  ravenous 
for  the  paltry  stakes,  that  she  could 
have  almost  better  borne  to  see  him 
dead.  And  yet  she  was  the  innocent 
cause  of  all  this  torture,  and  he,  gam- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


135 


bling  with  such  a savage  thirst  for  gain 
as  the  most  insatiable  gambler  never 
felt,  had  not  one  selfish  thought ! 

On  the  contrary,  the  other  three,  — 
knaves  and  gamesters  by  their  trade,  • — 
while  intent  upon  their  game,  were  yet 
as  cool  and  quiet  as  if  every  virtue  had 
been  centred  in  their  breasts.  Some- 
times one  would  look  up  to  smile  to 
another,  or  to  snuff  the  feeble  candle, 
or  to  glance  at  the  lightning  as  it  shot 
through  the  open  window  and  flutter- 
ing curtain,  or  to  listen  to  some  louder 
peal  of  thunder  than  the  rest,  with  a 
kind  of  momentary  impatience,  as  if  it 
put  him  out  ; but  there  they  sat,  with 
a calm  indifference  to  everything  but 
their  cards,  perfect  philosophers  in  ap- 
pearance, and  with  no  greater  show  of 
passion  or  excitement  than  if  they  had 
been  made  of  stone. 

The  storm  had  raged  for  full  three 
hours  ; the  lightning  had  grown  fainter 
and  less  frequent ; the  thunder,  from 
seeming  to  roll  and  break  above  their 
heads,  had  gradually  died  away  into  a 
deep  hoarse  distance  ; and  still  the  game 
went  on,  and  still  the  anxious  child  was 
quite  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

At  length  the  play  came  to  an  end, 
and  Mr.  Isaac  List  rose  the  only  win- 
ner. Mat  and  the  landlord  bore  their 
losses  with  professional  fortitude.  Isaac 
pocketed  his  gains  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  had  quite  made  up  his  mind 
to  win,  all  along,  and  was  neither  sur- 
prised nor  pleased. 

Nell’s  little  purse  was  exhausted  ; 
but,  although  it  lay  empty  by  his  side, 
and  the  other  players  had  now  risen 
from  the  table,  the  old  man  sat  por- 
ing over  the  cards,  dealing  them  as 
they  had  been  dealt  before,  and  turn- 
ing up  the  different  hands  to  see  what 
each  man  would  have  held  if  they  had 
still  been  playing.  He  was  quite  ab- 
sorbed in  this  occupation,  when  the 
child  drew  near  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  telling  him  it  was  near 
midnight. 

“ See  the  curse  of  poverty,  Nell,” 


he  said,  pointing  to  the  packs  he  had 
spread  out  upon  the  table.  “If  I 
could  have  gone  on  a little  longer,  only 
a little  longer,  the  luck  would  have 
turned  on  my  side.  Yes,  it ’s  as  plain 
as  the  marks  upon  the  cards.  See 
here  — and  there  — and  here  again.” 

“ Put  them  away,”  urged  the  child. 
“ Try  to  forget  them.” 

“ Try  to  forget  them  !”  he  rejoined, 
raising  his  haggard  face  to  hers,  and  re- 
garding her  with  an  incredulous  stare. 
“To  forget  them  ! How  are  we  ever  to 
growr  rich  if  I forget  them  ? ” 

The  child  could  only  shake  her  head. 
“ No,  no,  Nell,”  said  the  old  man, 
patting  her  cheek  ; “they  must  not  be 
forgotten.  We  must  make  amends  for 
this  as  soon  as  we  can.  Patience,  — 
patience,  and  we  ’ll  right  thee  yet,  I 
promise  thee.  Lose  to-day,  win  to- 
morrow. And  nothing  can  be  won 
without  anxiety  and  care, — nothing. 
Come,  I am  ready.” 

“Do  you  know  what  the  time  is?” 
said  Mr.  Groves,  who  was  smoking  with 
his  friends.  “ Past  twelve  o’clock  — ” 
“ — And  a rainy  night,”  added  the 
stout  man. 

“ The  Valiant  Soldier,  by  James 
Groves.  Good  beds.  Cheap  enter- 
tainment for  man  and  beast,”  said  Mr. 
Groves,  quoting  his  sign-board.  “Half 
past  twelve  o’clock.” 

“ It ’s  very  late,”  said  the  uneasy 
child.  “ I wish  we  had  gone  before. 
What  will  they  think  of  us  ! It  will  be 
two  o’clock  by  the  time  we  get  back. 
What  would  it  cost,  sir,  if  we  stopped 
here  ? ” 

“ Two  good  beds,  one  and  sixpence ; 
supper  and  beer,  one  shilling  : total,  two 
shillings  and  sixpence,”  replied  the 
Valiant  Soldier. 

Now  Nell  had  still  the  piece  of  gold 
sewn  in  her  dress  ; and  w'hen  she  came  to 
consider  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and 
the  somnolent  habits  of  Mrs.  Jarley,  and 
to  imagine  the  state  of  consternation  in 
which  they  would  certainly  throw  that 
good  lady  by  knocking  her  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  — and  when  she 
reflected,  on  the  other  hand,  that  if  they 
remained  where  they  were,  and  rose 
early  in  the  morning,  they  might  get 
back  before  she  awoke,  and  could  plead 


i36 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


the  violence  of  the  storm  by  which  they 
had  been  overtaken,  as  a good  apology 
for  their  absence,  — she  decided,  after 
a great  deal  of  hesitation,  to  remain. 
She  therefore  took  her  grandfather 
aside,  and  telling  him  that  she  had  still 
enough  left  to  defray  the  cost  of  their 
lodging,  proposed  that  they  should  stay 
there  for  the  night. 

“ If  I had  had  but  that  money  before, 
— if  I had  only  known  of  it  a few  min- 
utes ago  ! ” muttered  the  old  man. 

“We  will  decide  to  stop  here  if  you 
please,”  said  Nell,  turning  hastily  to 
the  landlord. 

“I  think  that’s  prudent,”  returned 
Mr.  Groves.  “ You  shall  have  your 
suppers  directly.” 

Accordingly,  when  Mr.  Groves  had 
smoked  his  pipe  out,  knocked  out  the 
ashes,  and  placed  it  carefully  in  a corner 
of  the  fireplace,  with  the  bowl  down- 
wards, he  brought  in  the  bread  and 
cheese  and  beer,  with  many  high  enco- 
miums upon  their  excellence,  and  bade 
his  guests  fall  to,  and  make  themselves 
at  home.  Nell  and  her  grandfather  ate 
sparingly,  for  both  were  occupied  with 
their  own  reflections  ; the  other  gentle- 
men, for  whose  constitutions  beer  was 
too  weak  and  tame  a liquid,  consoled 
themselves  with  spirits  and  tobacco. 

As  they  would  leave  the  house  very 
early  in  the  morning,  the  child  was  anx- 
ious to  pay  for  their  entertainment  be- 
fore they  retired  to  bed.  But  as  she 
felt  the  necessity  of  concealing  her  little 
hoard  from  her  grandfather,  and  had 
to  change  the  piece  of  gold,  she  took  it 
secretly  from  its  place  of  concealment, 
and  embraced  an  opportunity  of  follow- 
ing the  landlord  when  he  went  out  of 
the  room,  and  tendered  it  to  him  in  the 
little  bar. 

“Will  you  give  me  the  change  here 
if  you  please  ? ” said  the  child. 

Mr.  James  Groves  was  evidently  sur- 
prised, and  looked  at  the  money,  and 
rung  it,  and  looked  at  the  child,  and  at 
the  money  again,  as  though  he  had  a 
mind  to  inquire  how  she  came  by  it. 
The  coin  being  genuine,  however,  and 
changed  at  his  house,  he  probably  felt, 
like  a wise  landlord,  that  it  was  no 
business  of  his.  At  any  rate,  he  count- 
ed out  the  change,  and  gave  it  her. 


The  child  was  returning  to  the  room 
where  they  had  passed  the  evening, 
when  she  fancied  she  saw  a figure  just 
gliding  in  at  the  door.  There  was 
nothing  but  a long  dark  passage  be- 
tween this  door  and  the  place  where 
she  had  changed  the  money,  and,  being 
very  certain  that  no  person  had  passed 
in  or  out  while  she  stood  there,  the 
thought  struck  her  that  she  had  been 
watched. 

But  by  whom?  When  she  re-entered 
the  room,  she  found  its  inmates  exactly 
as  she  had  left  them.  The  stout  fellow 
lay  upon  two  chairs,  resting  his  head  on 
his  hand,  and  the  squinting  man  reposed 
in  a similar  attitude  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table.  Between  them  sat 
her  grandfather,  looking  intently  at  the 
winner  with  a kind  of  hungry  admira- 
tion, and  hanging  upon  his  words  as  if 
he  were  some  superior  being.  She  was 
puzzled  for  a moment,  and  looked  round 
to  see  if  any  else  were  there.  No. 
Then  she  asked  her  grandfather  in  a 
whisper  whether  anybody  had  left  the 
room  while  she  was  absent.  “ No,”  he 
said,  “ nobody.” 

It  must  have  been  her  fancy  then  ; 
and  yet  it  was  strange,  that,  without 
anything,  in  her  previous  thoughts  to 
lead  to  it,  she  should  have  imagined 
this  figure  so  very  distinctly.  She  was 
still  wondering  and  thinking  of  it,  when 
a girl  came  to  light  her  to  bed. 

The  old  man  took  leave  of  the  com- 
pany at  the  same  time,  and  they  went 
up  stairs  together.  It  w'as  a great  ram- 
bling house,  with  dull  corridors  and  w-ide 
staircases,  which  the  flaring  candles 
seemed  to  make  more  gloomy.  She 
left  her  grandfather  in  his  chamber,  and 
followed  her  guide  to  another,  which 
was  at  the  end  of  a passage,  and  ap- 
proached by  some  half-dozen  crazy 
steps.  This  was  prepared  for  her.  The 
girl  lingered  a little  while  to  talk,  and 
tell  her  grievances.  She  had  not  a good 
place,  she  said  ; the  wages  were  low, 
and  the  work  was  hard.  She  was  going 
to  leave  it  in  a fortnight ; the  child 
could  n’t  recommend  her  to  another, 
she  supposed?  Indeed,  she  was  afraid 
another  would  be  difficult  to  get  after 
living  there,  for  the  house  had  a very 
indifferent  character  ; there  was  far  too 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


* 37 


much  card-playing,  and  such  like.  She 
was  very  much  mistaken  if  some  of  the 
people  who  came  there  oftenest  were 
quite  as  honest  as  they  might  be,  but 
she  would  n’t  have  it  known  that  she 
had  said  so  for  the  world.  Then  there 
were  some  rambling  allusions  to  a re- 
jected sweetheart,  who  had  threatened 
to  go  a soldiering,  a final  promise  of 
knocking  at  the  door  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  “ Good  night.” 

The  child  did  not  feel  comfortable 
when  she  was  left  alone.  She  could 
not  help  thinking  of  the  figure  stealing 
through  the  passage  down  stairs ; and 
what  the  girl  had  said,  did  not  tend  to 
reassure  her.  The  men  were  very  ill- 
looking.  They  might  get  their  living 
by  robbing  and  murdering  travellers. 
Who  could  tell? 

Reasoning  herself  out  of  these  fears, 
or  losing  sight  of  them  for  a little  while, 
there  came  the  anxiety  to  which  the 
adventures  of  the  night  gave  rise.  Here 
was  the  old  passion  awakened  again  in 
her  grandfather’s  breast,  and  to  what 
further  distraction  it  might  tempt  him 
Heaven  only  knew.  What  fears  their 
absence  might  have  occasioned  already  ! 
Persons  might  be  seeking  for  them  even 
then.  Would  they  be  forgiven  in  the 
morning,  or  turned  adrift  again  ! Oh  ! 
why  had  they  stopped  in  that  strange 
place?  It  would  have  been  better, 
under  any  circumstances,  to  have  gone 
on  ! 

At  last,  sleep  gradually  stole  upon 
her,  — a broken,  fitful  sleep,  troubled 
by  dreams  of  falling  from  high  towers, 
and  waking  with  a start  and  in  great 
terror.  A deeper  slumber  followed 
this  — and  then  — What  ! That  fig- 
ure in  the  room  ! 

A figure  was  there.  Yes,  she  had 
drawn  up  the  blind  to  admit  the  light 
when  it  should  dawn,  and  there,  between 
the  foot  of  the  bed  and  the  dark  case- 
ment, it  crouched  and  slunk  along,  grop- 
ing its  way  with  noiseless  hands,  and 
stealing  round  the  bed.  She  had  no 
voice  to  cry  for  help,  no  pow’er  to  move, 
but  lay  still,  watching  it. 

On  it  came,  — on,  silently  and  stealth- 
ily, to  the  bed’s  head, — the  breath  so 
near  her  pillow  that  she  shrunk  back 
into  it,  lest  those  wandering  hands 


should  light  upon  her  face.  Back  again 
it  stole  to  the  window,  then  turned  its 
head  towards  her. 

The  dark  form  was  a mere  blot  upon 
the  lighter  darkness  of  the  room,  but  she 
saw  the  turning  of  the  head,  and  felt 
and  knew  how  the  eyes  looked  and  the 
ears  listened.  There  it  remained,  mo- 
tionless as  she.  At  length,  still  keeping 
the  face  towards  her,  it  busied  its  hands 
in  something,  and  she  heard  the  chink 
of  money. 

Then,  on  it  came  again,  silent  and 
stealthy  as  before,  and,  replacing  the 
garments  it  had  taken  from  the  bedside, 
dropped  upon  its  hands  and  knees,  and 
crawled  away.  How  slowly  it  seemed 
to  move,  now  that  she  could  hear  but 
not  see  it  creeping  along  the  floor  ! It 
reached  the  door  at  last,  and  stood  upon 
its  feet.  The  steps  creaked  beneath  its 
noiseless  tread,  and  it  was  gone. 

The  first  impulse  of  the  child  was  to 
fly  from  the  terror  of  being  by  herself 
in  that  room  — to  have  somebody  by  — 
not  to  be  alone  — and  then  her  power  of 
speech  would  be  restored.  With  no 
consciousness  of  having  moved,  she 
gained  the  door. 

There  was  the  dreadful  shadow,  paus- 
ing at  the  bottom  of  the  steps. 

She  could  not  pass  it ; she  might  have 
done  so,  perhaps,  in  the  darkness,  with- 
out being  seized,  but  her  blood  curdled 
at  the  thought.  The  figure  stood  quite 
still,  and  so  did  she  ; not  boldly,  but  of 
necessity  ; for  going  back  into  the  room 
was  hardly  less  terrible  than  going  on. 

The  rain  beat  fast  and  furiously  with- 
out, and  ran  down  in  plashing  streams 
from  the  thatched  roof.  Some  summer 
insect,  with  no  escape  into  the  air,  flew 
blindly  to  and  fro,  beating  its  body 
against  the  walls  and  ceiling,  and  filling 
the  silent  place  with  murmurs.  The 
figure  moved  again.  The  child  invol- 
untarily did  the  same.  Once  in  her 
grandfather’s  room,  she  would  be  safe. 

It  crept  along  the  passage  until  it 
came  to  the  very  door  she  longed  so 
ardently  to  reach.  The  child,  in  the 
agony  of  being  so  near,  had  almost 
darted  forward  with  the  design  of  burst- 
ing into  the  room  and  closing  it  behind 
her,  when  the  figure  stopped  again. 

The  idea  flashed  suddenly  upon  her 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


138 

— what  if  it  entered  there,  and  had  a 
design  upon  the  old  man’s  life  ! She 
turned  faint  and  sick.  It  did.  It  went 
in.  There  was  a light  inside.  The 
figure  was  now  within  the  chamber, 
and  she,  still  dumb,  — quite  dumb,  and 
almost  senseless, — stood  looking  on. 

The  door  was  partly  open.  Not 
knowing  what  she  meant  to  do,  but 
meaning  to  preserve  him  or  be  killed 
herself,  she  staggered  forward  and 
looked  in. 

What  sight  was  that  which  met  her 
view  ! 

The  bed  had  not  been  lain  on,  but 
was  smooth  and  empty.  And  at  a ta- 
ble sat  the  old  man  himself,  — the  only 
living  creature  there,  — his  white  face 
pinched  and  sharpened  by  the  greedi- 
ness which  made  his  eyes  unnaturally 
bright,  counting  the  money  of  whicii 
his  hands  had  robbed  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

With  steps  more  faltering  and  un- 
steady than  those  with  which  she  had 
approached  the  room,  the  child  with- 
drew from  the  door,  and  groped  her 
way  back  to  her  own  chamber.  The 
terror  she  had  lately  felt  was  nothing 
compared  with  that  which  now  op- 
pressed her.  No  strange  robber,  no 
treacherous  host  conniving  at  the  plun- 
der of  his  guests,  or  stealing  to  their 
beds  to  kill  them  in  their  sleep,  no 
nightly  prowler,  however  terrible  and 
cruel,  could  have  awakened  in  her  bo- 
som half  the  dread  which  the  recogni- 
tion of  her  silent  visitor  inspired.  The 
gray-headed  old  man,  gliding  like  a 
ghost  into  her  room  and  acting  the 
thief  while  he  supposed  her  fast  asleep, 
then  bearing  off  his  prize  and  hanging 
over  it  with  the  ghastly  exultation  she 
had  witnessed,  was  worse  — immeas- 
urably worse,  and  far  more  dreadful, 
for  the  moment,  to  reflect  upon  — than 
anything  her  wildest  fancy  could  have 
suggested.  If  he  should  return,  — there 
was  no  lock  or  bolt  upon  the  door,  and 
if,  distrustful  of  having  left  some  money 
yet  behind,  he  should  come  back  to 
seek  for  more,  — a vague  awe  and  hor- 


ror surrounded  the  idea  of  his  slinking 
in  again  with  stealthy  tread,  and  turn- 
ing his  face  toward  the  empty  bed, 
while  she  shrank  down  close  at  his  feet 
to  avoid  his  touch,  which  was  almost 
insupportable.  She  sat  and  listened. 
Hark  ! A footstep  on  the  stairs,  and 
now  the  door  was  slowly  opening.  It 
was  but  imagination,  yet  imagination 
had  all  the  terrors  of  reality;  nay,  it 
was  worse,  for  the  reality  would  have 
come  and  gone,  and  there  an  end,  but 
in  imagination  it  was  always  coming, 
and  never  went  away. 

The  feeling  which  beset  the  child  was 
one  of  dim,  uncertain  honor.  She  had 
no  fear  of  the  dear  old  grandfather,  in 
whose  love  for  her  this  disease  of  the 
brain  had  been  engendered  ; but  the 
man  she  had  seen  that  night,  wrapt  in 
the  game  of  chance,  lurking  in  her 
room,  and  counting  the  money  by  the 
glimmering  light,  seemed  like  another 
creature  in  his  shape,  a monstrous  dis- 
tortion of  his  image,  a something  to 
recoil  from,  and  be  the  more  afraid  of, 
because  it  bore  a likeness  to  him,  and 
kept  close  about  her,  as  he  did.  She 
could  scarcely  connect  her  own  affec- 
tionate companion,  save  by  his  loss, 
with  this  old  man,  so  like  yet  so  unlike 
him.  She  had  wept  to  see  him  dull 
and  quiet.  How  much  greater  cause 
she  had  for  weeping  now! 

The  child  sat  watching  and  thinking 
of  these  things,  until  the  phantom  in 
her  mind  so  increased  in  gloom  and 
terror  that  she  felt  it  would  be  a relief 
to  hear  the  old  man’s  voice,  or,  if  he 
were  asleep,  even  to  see  him,  and  ban- 
ish some  of  the  fears  that  clustered 
round  his  image.  She  stole  down  the 
stairs  and  passage  again.  The  door  was 
still  ajar  as  she  had  left  it,  and  the  can- 
dle burning  as  before. 

She  had  her  own  candle  in  her  hand, 
prepared  to  say,  if  he  were  waking,  that 
she  was  uneasy  and  could  not  rest,  and 
had  come  to  see  if  his  were  still  alight. 
Looking  into  the  room,  she  saw  him 
lying  calmly  on  his  bed,  and  so  took 
courage  to  enter. 

Fast  asleep,  — no  passion  in  the  face, 
no  avarice,  no  anxiety,  no  wild  desire ; 
all  gentle,  tranquil,  and  at  peace.  This 
was  not  the  gambler,  or  the  shadow  in 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


i39 


her  room  ; this  was  not  even  the  worn 
and  jaded  man  whose  face  had  so  often 
met  her  own  in  the  gray  morning  light ; 
this  was  her  dear  old  friend,  her  harmless 
fellow-traveller,  her  good,  kind  grand- 
father. 

She  had  no  fear  as  she  looked  upon 
his  slumbering  features,  but  she  had  a 
deep  and  weighty  sorrow,  and  it  found 
its  reljef  in  tears. 

“ God  bless  him  ! ” said  the  child, 
stooping  softly  to  kiss  his  placid  cheek. 
“ I see  too  well  now,  that  they  would 
indeed  part  us  if  they  found  us  out,  and 
shut  him  up  from  the  light  of  the  sun 
and  sky.  He  has  only  me  to  help  him. 
God  bless  us  both  ! ” 

Lighting  her  candle,  she  retreated  as 
silently  as  she  had  come,  and,  gaining 
her  own  room  once  more,  sat  up  during 
the  remainder  of  that  long,  long,  miser- 
able night. 

At  last  the  day  turned  her  waning 
candle  pale,  and  she  fell  asleep.  She 
was  quickly  roused  by  the  girl  who  had 
shown  her  up  to  bed  ; and,  as  soon  as 
she  was  dressed,  prepared  to  go  down  to 
her  grandfather.  But  first  she  searched 
her  pocket  and  found  that  her  money 
was  all  gone,  — not  a sixpence  remained. 

The  old  man  was  ready,  and  in  a few 
seconds  they  were  on  their  road.  The 
child  thought  he  rather  avoided  her  eye, 
and  appeared  to  expect  that  she  would 
tell  him  of  her  loss.  She  felt  she  must 
do  that,  or  he  might  suspect  the  truth. 

“ Grandfather,”  she  said  in  a tremu- 
lous voice,  after  they  had  walked  about 
a mile  in  silence,  “do  you  think  they 
are  honest  people  at  the  house  yon- 
der? ” 

“ Why  ? ” returned  the  old  man,  trem- 
bling. “ Do  I think  them  honest,  — yes, 
they  played  honestly.” 

“ I ’ll  tell  you  why  I ask,”  rejoined 
Nell.  “ I lost  some  money  last  night, 
— out  of  my  bedroom  I am  sure.  Un- 
less it  was  taken  by  somebody  in  jest,  — 
only  in  jest,  dear  grandfather,  which 
would  make  me  laugh  heartily  if  I could 
but  know  it  — ” 

“Who  would  take  money  in  jest?” 
returned  the  old  man,  in  a hurried  man- 
ner. “Those  who  take  money,  take  it 
to  keep.  Don’t  talk  of  jest.” 

“ Then  it  was  stolen  out  of  my  room, 


dear,”  said  the  child,  whose  last  hope 
was  destroyed  by  the  manner  of  this 
reply. 

“ But  is  there  no  more,  Nell?”  said 
the  old  man,  — “no  more  anywhere? 
Was  it  all  taken?  every  farthing  of  it? 
was  there  nothing  left  ? ” 

* “ Nothing,”  replied  the  child. 

“We  must  get  more,”  said  the  old 
man;  “we  must  earn  it,  Nell,  hoard  it 
up,  scrape  it  together,  come  by  it  some- 
how. Never  mind  this  loss.  Tell  no- 
body of  it,  and  perhaps  we  may  regain 
it.  Don’t  ask  how.  We  may  regain 
it,  and  a great  deal  more  ; but  tell  no- 
body, or  trouble  may  come  of  it.  And 
so  they  took  it  out  of  thy  room,  when 
thou  wert  asleep  ! ” he  added,  in  a com- 
passionate tone,  very  different  from  the 
secret,  cunning  way  in  which  he  had 
spoken  until  now.  “ Poor  Nell,  poor 
little  Nell!” 

The  child  hung  down  her  head  and 
wept.  The  sympathizing  tone  in  which 
he  spoke  was  quite  sincere  ; she  was 
sure  of  that.  It  was  not  the  lightest 
part  of  her  sorrow  to  know  that  this 
was  done  for  her. 

“ Not  a word  about  it  to  any  one  but 
me,”  said  the  old  man  ; “ no,  not  even 
to  me,”  he  added,  hastily,  “ for  it  can  do 
no  good.  All  the  losses  that  ever  were 
are  not  worth  tears  from  thy  eyes,  dar- 
ling. Why  should  they  be,  when  we 
will  win  them  back?  ” 

“ Let  them  go,”  said  the  child,  look- 
ing up.  “ Let  them  go,  once  and  for- 
ever, and  I would  never  shed  another 
tear  if  every  penny  had  been  a thousand 
pounds.” 

“Well,  well,”  returned  the  old  man, 
checking^  himself  as  some  impetuous 
answer  rose  to  his  lips,  “ she  knows  no 
better.  I should  be  thankful  for  it.” 

“But  listen  to  me,”  said  the  child, 
earnestly,  “will  you  listen  to  me?” 

“Ay,  ay,  I’ll  listen,”  returned  the 
old  man,  still  without  looking  at  her ; 
“a  pretty  voice.  It  has  always  a sweet 
sound  to  me.  It  always  had  when  it 
was  her  mother’s,  poor  child.” 

“Let  me  persuade  you,  then,  — O, 
do  let  me  persuade  you,”  said  the  child, 
“to  think  no  more  of  gains  or  losses, 
and  to  try  no  fortune  but  the  fortune  we 
pursue  together.” 


140 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“We  pursue  this  aim  together,”  re- 
torted her  grandfather,  still  looking 
away,  and  seeming  to  confer  with  him- 
self. “ Whose  image  sanctifies  the 
game  ? ” 

“ Have  we  been  worse  off,”  resumed 
the  child,  “ since  you  forgot  these  cares, 
and  we  have  been  travelling  on  togeth- 
er? Have  we  not  been  much  better 
and  happier  without  a home  to  shelter 
us,  than  ever  we  were  in  that  unhappy 
house,  when  they  were  on  your  mind?  ” 

“ She  speaks  the  truth,”  murmured 
the  old  man,  in  the  same  tone  as  before. 
“It  must  not  turn  me,  but  it  is  the 
truth,  — no  doubt  it  is.” 

. “ Only  remember  what  we  have  been 
since  that  bright  morning  when  we 
turned  our  backs  upon  it  for  the  last 
time,”  said  Nell,  — “only  remember 
what  we  have  been  since  we  have  been 
free  of  all  those  miseries, — what  peaceful 
days  and  quiet  nights  we  have  had,  — 
what  pleasant  times  we  have  known,  — 
what  happiness  we  have  enjoyed.  If 
we  have  been  tired  or  hungry,  we  have 
been  soon  refreshed,  and  slept  the 
sounder  for  it.  Think  what  beautiful 
things  we  have  seen,  and  how  contented 
we  have  felt.  And  why  was  this  blessed 
change  ? ” 

He  stopped  her  with  a motion  of  his 
hand,  and  bade  her  talk  to  him  no  more 
just  then,  for  he  was  busy.  After  a time 
he  kissed  her  cheek,  still  motioning  her 
to  silence,  and  walked  on,  looking  far 
before  him,  and  sometimes  stopping 
and  gazing  with  a puckered  brow  upon 
the  ground,  as  if  he  were  painfully  try- 
ing to  collect  his  disordered  thoughts. 
Once  she  saw  tears  in  his  eyes.  When 
he  had  gone  on  thus  for  sometime,  he 
took  her  hand  in  his  as  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  do,  with  nothing  of  the  vio- 
lence or  animation  of  his  late  manner  ; 
and  so,  by  degrees  so  fine  that  the  child 
could  not  trace  them,  settled  down  into 
his  usual  quiet  way,  and  suffered  her  to 
lead  him  where  she  would. 

When  they  presented  themselves  in 
the  midst  of  the  stupendous  collection, 
they  found,  as  Nell  had  anticipated, 
that  Mrs.  Jarley  was  not  yet  out  of  bed, 
and  that,  although  she  had  suffered 
some  uneasiness  on  their  account  over- 
night, and  had  indeed  sat  up  for  them 


until  past  eleven  o’clock,  she  had  re- 
tired in  the  persuasion,  that,  being 
overtaken  by  storm  at  some  distance 
from  home,  they  had  sought  the  nearest 
shelter,  and  would  not  return  before 
morning..  Nell  immediately  applied 
herself  with  great  assiduity  to  the  deco- 
ration and  preparation  of  the  room,  and 
had  the  satisfaction  of  completing  her 
task,  and  dressing  herself  neatly,  before 
thebeloved  of  the  Royal  Family  came 
down  to  breakfast. 

“We  haven’t  had,”  said  Mrs.  Jarley 
when  the  meal  was  over,  “ more  than 
eight  of  Miss  Monflathers’s  young  la- 
dies all  the  time  we ’ve  been  here,  and 
there ’s  twenty-six  of  ’em,  as  I was  told 
by  the  cook  when  I asked  her  a ques- 
tion or  two  and  put  her  on  the  free-list. 
We  must  try  ’em  with  a parcel  of  new 
bills,  and  you  shall  take  it,  my  dear, 
and  see  what  effect  that  has  upon  ’em.” 

The  proposed  expedition  being  one 
of  paramount  importance,  Mrs.  Jarley 
adjusted  Nell’s  bonnet  with  her  own 
hands,  and  declaring  that  she  certainly 
did  look  very  pretty,  and  reflected  credit 
on  the  establishment,  dismissed  her 
with  many  commendations,  and  certain 
needful  directions  as  to  the  turnings  on 
the  right  which  she  was  to  take,  and 
the  turnings  on  the  left  which  she  was 
to  avoid.  Thus  instructed,  Nell  had 
no  difficulty  in  finding  out  Miss  Mon- 
flathers’s Boarding  and  Day  Establish- 
ment, which  was  a large  house,  with  a 
high  wall,  and  a large  garden-gate  with 
a large  brass  plate,  and  a small  grating 
through  which  Miss  Monflathers’s  par- 
lor-maid inspected  all  visitors  before 
admitting  them ; for  nothing  in  the 
shape  of  a man  — no,  not  even  a milk- 
man — was  suffered,  without  special 
license,  to  pass  that  gate.  Even  the 
tax-gatherer,  who  was  stout,'  and  wore 
spectacles  and  a broad-brimmed  hat, 
had  the  taxes  handed  through  the  grat- 
ing. More  obdurate  than  gate  of  ada- 
mant or  brass,  this  gate  of  Miss  Mon- 
flathers’s frowned  on  all  mankind.  The 
very  butcher  respected  it  as  a gate  of 
mystery,  and  left  off  whistling  when  he 
rang  the  bell. 

As  Nell  approached  the  awful  door, 
it  turned  slowly  upon  its  hinges  with  a 
creaking  noise,  and  forth  from  the  sol- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


141 


emn  grove  beyond  came  a long  file  of 
oung  ladies,  two  and  two,  all  with  open 
ooks  in  their  hands,  and  some  with 
parasols  likewise.  And  last  of  the  good- 
ly procession  came  Miss  Monflathers, 
bearing  herself  a parasol  of  lilac  silk, 
and  supported  by  two  smiling  teachers, 
each  mortally  envious  of  the  other,  and 
devoted  unto  Miss  Monflathers. 

Confused  by  the  looks  and  whispers 
of  the  girls,  Nell  stood  with  downcast 
eyes  and  suffered  the  procession  to  pass 
on,  until  Miss  Monflathers,  bringing 
up  the  rear,  approached  her,  when  she 
courtesied  and  presented  her  little  pack- 
et; on  receipt  whereof  Miss  Monflath- 
ers commanded  that  the  line  should 
halt. 

“You  ’re  the  wax-work  child,  are  you 
not?  ” said  Miss  Monflathers. 

“Yes,  ma’am,”  replied  Nell,  color- 
ing deeply,  for  the  young  ladies  had 
collected  about  her,  and  she  was  the 
centre  on  which  all  eyes  were  fixed. 

“And  don’t  you  think  you  must  be 
a very  wicked  little  child,”  said  Miss 
Monflathers,  who  was  of  rather  uncer- 
tain temper,  and  lost  no  opportunity  of 
impressing  moral  truths  upon  the  ten- 
der minds  of  the  young  ladies,  “to  be 
a wax-work  child  at  all  ?” 

Poor  Nell  had  never  viewed  her  po- 
sition in  this  light,  and,  not  knowing 
what  to  say,  remained  silent,  blushing 
more  deeply  than  before. 

“ Don’t  you  know,”  said  Miss  Mon- 
flathers, “that  it’s  very  naughty  and 
unfeminine,  and  a perversion  of  the 
properties  wisely  and  benignantly  trans- 
mitted to  us,  with  expansive  powers  to 
be  roused  from  their  dormant  state 
through  the  medium  of  cultivation  ? ” 

The  two  teachers  murmured  their  re- 
spectful approval  of  this  home-thrust, 
and  looked  at  Nell  as  though  they 
would  have  said  that  there  indeed  Miss 
Monflathers  had  hit  her  very  hard. 
Then  they  smiled  and  glanced  at  Miss 
Monflathers,  and  then,  their  eyes  meet- 
ing, they  exchanged  looks  which  plainly 
said  that  each  considered  herself  smiler 
in  ordinary  to  Miss  Monflathers,  and 
regarded  the  other  as  having  no  right 
to  smile,  and  that  her  so  doing  was  an 
act  of  presumption  and  impertinence. 

“ Don’t  you  feel  how  naughty  it  is  of 


ou,”  resumed  Miss  Monflathers,  “ to 
e a wax-work  child,  when  you  might 
have  the  proud  consciousness  of  assist- 
ing, to  the  extent  of  your  infant  powers, 
the  manufactures  of  your  country ; of 
improving  your  mind  by  the  constant 
contemplation  of  the  steam-engine  ; 
and  of  earning  a comfortable  and  inde- 
pendent subsistence  of  from  two  and 
ninepence  to  three  shillings  per  week? 
Don’t  you  know  that  the  harder  you  are 
at  work,  the  happier  you  are?  ” 

“‘How  doth  the  little — * ” mur- 
mured one  of  the  teachers,  in  quotation 
from  Doctor  Watts. 

“Eh?”  said  Miss  Monflathers,  turn- 
ing smartly  round.  “ Who  said  that  ? ” 
Of  course  the  teacher  who  had  not 
said  it  indicated  the  rival  who  had, 
whom  Miss  Monflathers  frowningly 
requested  to  hold  her  peace;  by  that 
means  throwing  the  informing  teacher 
into  raptures  of  joy. 

“The  little  busy  bee,”  said  Miss. 
Monflathers,  drawing  herself  up,  “is 
applicable  only  to  genteel  children. 

*In  books,  or  work,  or  healthful  play  ’ 
is  quite  right  as  far  as  they  are  con- 
cerned ; and  the  work  means  painting 
on  velvet,  fancy  needle-work,  or  em- 
broidery. In  such  cases  as  these,” 
pointing  to  Nell  with  her  parasol,  “and 
in  the  case  of  all  poor  people’s  children, 
we  should  read  it  thus  : — 

‘ In  work,  work,  work.  In  work  alway 
Let  my  first  years  be  past, 

That  1 may  give  for  ev’ry  day 
Some  good  account  at  last.’  ” 

A deep  hum  of  applause  rose  not  only 
from  the  two  teachers,  but  from  all  the 
pupils,  who  were  equally  astonished  to 
hear  Miss  Monflathers  improvising  af- 
ter this  brilliant  style  ; for,  although  she 
had  been  long  known  as  a politician,  she 
had  never  appeared  before  as  an  origi- 
nal poet.  Just  then  somebody  hap- 
pened to  discover  that  Nell  was  crying, 
and  all  eyes  were  again  turned  towards 
her. 

There  were  indeed  tears  in  her  eyes, 
and,  drawing  out  her  handkerchief  to 
brush  them  away,  she  happened  to  let 
it  fall.  Before  she  could  stoop  to  pick 
it  up,  one  young  lady,  of  about  fifteen 
or  sixteen,  who  had  been  standing  a 


142 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


little  apart  from  the  others,  as  though 
she  had  no  recognized  place  among 
them,  sprang  forward  and  put  it  in  her 
hand.  She  was  gliding  timidly  away 
again,  when  she  was  arrested  by  the 
governess. 

“ It  was  Miss  Edwards  who  did  that, 
I know,”  said  Miss  Monflathers  predic- 
tively.  “ Now  I am  sure  that  was  Miss 
Edwards.” 

It  was  Miss  Edwards,  and  everybody 
said  it  was  Miss  Edwards,  and  Miss  Ed- 
wards herself  admitted  that  it  was. 

“ Is  it  not,”  said  Miss  Monflathers, 
putting  down  her  parasol  to  take  a se- 
verer view  of  the  offender,  “a  most 
remarkable  thing,  Miss  Edwards,  that 
you  have  an  attachment  to  the  lower 
classes  which  always  draws  you  to 
their  sides?  or  rather,  is  it  not  a most 
extraordinary  thing  that  all  I say 
and  do  will  not  wean  you  from  pro- 
pensities which  your  original  station  in 
life  have  unhappily  rendered  habitual 
to  you,  you  extremely  vulgar-minded 
girl?” 

“ I really  intended  no  harm,  ma’am,” 
said  a sweet  voice.  “ It  was  a momen- 
tary impulse,  indeed.” 

“An  impulse  ! ” repeated  Miss  Mon- 
flathers, scornfully.  “ I wonder  that  you 
presume  to  speak  of  impulses  to  me  ” — 
both  the  teachers  assented  — “I  am  as- 
tonished ” — both  the  teachers  were  as- 
tonished— “ I suppose  it  is  an  impulse 
which  induces  you  to  take  the  part  of 
every  grovelling  and  debased  person 
that  comes  in  your  way”  — both  the 
teachers  supposed  so  too. 

“ But  I would  have  you  know,  Miss 
Edwards,”  resumed  the  governess  in  a 
tone  of  increased  severity,  “ that  you  can- 
not be  permitted,  — if  it  be  only  for  the 
sake  of  preserving  a proper  example  and 
decorum  in  this  establishment,  — that 
you  cannot  be  permitted,  and  that  you 
shall  not  be  permitted,  to  fly  in  the 
face  of  your  superiors  in  this  exceed- 
ingly  gross  manner.  If  you  have  no 
reason  to  feel  a becoming  pride  before 
wax-work  children,  there  are  young 
ladies  here  who  have,  and  you  must 
either  defer  to  those  young  ladies  or 
leave  the  establishment,  Miss  Ed- 
wards.” 

This  young  lady,  being  motherless  and 


poor,  was  apprenticed  at  the  school, 
taught  for  nothing,  teaching  others 
what  she  learnt  for  nothing,  boarded 
for  nothing,  lodged  for  nothing,  and 
set  down  and  rated  as  something  im- 
measurably less  than  nothing,  by  all 
the  dwellers  in  the  house.  The  ser- 
vant-maids felt  her  inferiority,  for  they 
were  better  treated,  — free  to  come  and 
go,  and  regarded  in  their  stations  with 
much  more  respect.  The  teachers  were 
infinitely  superior,  for  they  had  paid  to 
go  to  school  in  their  time,  and  were  paid 
now.  The  pupils  cared  little  for  a com- 
panion who  had  no  grand  stories  to  tell 
about  home ; no  friends  to  come  with 
post-horses,  and  be  received  in  all  hu- 
mility, with  cake  and  wine,  by  the 
governess ; no  deferential  servant  to 
attend  and  bear  her  home  for  the  holi- 
days; nothing  genteel  to  talk  about, 
and  nothing  to  display.  But  why  was 
Miss  Monflathers  always  vexed  and  irri- 
tated with  the  poor  apprentice,  — how 
did  that  come  to  pass? 

Why,  the  gayest  feather  in  Miss  Mon- 
flathers’s  cap,  and  the  brightest  glory  of 
Miss  Monflathers’ s school,  was  a baro- 
net’s daughter,  — the  real  live  daughter 
of  a real  live  baronet,  — who,  by  some 
extraordinary  reversal  of  the  laws  of  na- 
ture, was  not  only  plain  in  features  but 
dull  in  intellect,  while  the  poor  appren- 
tice had  both  a ready  wit  and  a hand- 
some face  and  figure.  It  seems  incredi- 
ble. Here  was  Miss  Edwards,  who  on- 
ly paid  a small  premium  which  had  been 
spent  long  ago,  every  day  outshining  and 
excelling  the  baronet’s  daughter,  who 
learned  all  the  extras  (or  was  taught 
them  all)  and  whose  half-yearly  bill 
came  to  double  that  of  any  other  young 
lady’s  in  the  school,  making  no  account 
of  the  honor  and  reputation  of  her  pupil- 
age. Therefore,  and  because  she  was  a 
dependant,  Miss  Monflathers  had  a great 
dislike  to  Miss  Edwards,  and  was  spite- 
ful to  her,  and  aggravated  by  her,  and, 
when  she  had  compassion  on  little  Nell, 
verbally  fell  upon  and  maltreated  her  as 
we  have  already  seen. 

“You  will  not  take  the  air  to-day, 
Miss  Edwards,”  said  Miss  Monflath- 
ers. “ Have  the  goodness  to  retire  to 
your  .own  room,  and  not  to  leave  it 
without  permission.” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


i43 


The  poor  girl  was  moving  hastily  away, 
when  she  was  suddenly,  in  nautical 
phrase,  “brought  to”  by  a subdued 
shriek  from  Miss  Monflathers. 

“ She  has  passed  me  without  any  sa- 
lute !”  cried  the  governess,  raising  her 
eyes  to  the  sky.  “ She  has  actually 
passed  me  without  the  slightest  ac- 
knowledgment of  my  presence  ! ” 

The  young  lady  turned  and  courtesied. 
Nell  could  see  that  she  raised  her  dark 
eyes  to  the  face  of  her  superior,  and  that 
their  expression,  and  that  of  her  whole 
attitude  for  the  instant,  was  one  of  mute 
but  most  touching  appeal  against  this 
ungenerous  usage.  Miss  Monflathers 
only  tossed  her  head  in  reply,  and  the 
great  gate  closed  upon  a bursting 
heart. 

“As  for  you,  you  wicked  child,”  said 
Miss  Monflathers,  turning  to  Nell, 
“ tell  your  mistress  that  if  she  presumes 
to  take  the  liberty  of  sending  to  me  any 
more,  I will  write  to  the  legislative 
authorities  and  have  her  put  in  the 
stocks,  or  compelled  to  do  penance  in 
a white  sheet ; an^  you  may  depend 
upon  it  that  you  shall  certainly  expe- 
rience the  treadmill  if  you  dare  to  come 
here  again.  Now,  ladies,  on.” 

The  procession  filed  off,  two  and 
two,  with  the  books  and  parasols,  and 
Miss  Monflathers,  calling  the  baronet’s 
daughter  to  walk  with  her  and  smooth 
her  ruffled  feelings,  discarded  the  two 
teachers, — who  by  this  time  had  ex- 
changed their  smiles  for  looks  of  sym- 
pathy, — and  left  them  to  bring  up  the 
rear,  and  hate  each  other  a little  more 
for  being  obliged  to  walk  together. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Mrs.  Jarley’s  wrath,  on  first  learn- 
ing that  she  had  been  threatened  with 
the  indignity  of  stocks  and  penance, 
passed  all  description.  The  genuine 
and  only  Jarley  exposed  to  public  scorn, 
jeered  by  children,  and  flouted  by 
beadles  ! The  delight  of  the  Nobility 
and  Gentry  shorn  of  a bonnet  which  a 
Lady  Mayoress  might  have  sighed  to 
wear,  and  arrayed  in  a white  sheet  as 
a spectacle  of  mortification  and  humili- 


ty! And  Miss  Monflathers,  the  auda- 
cious creature  who  presumed,  even  in 
the  dimmest  and  remotest  distance  of 
her  imagination,  to  conjure  up  the 
degrading  picture.  “ I am  a’most  in- 
clined,” said  Mrs.  Jarley,  bursting  with 
the  fulness  of  her  anger  and  the  weak- 
ness of  her  means  of  revenge,  “to  turn 
atheist  when  I think  of  it ! ” 

But  instead  of  adopting  this  course 
of  retaliation,  Mrs.  Jarley,  on  second 
thoughts,  brought  out  the  suspicious 
bottle,  and  ordering  glasses  to  be  set 
forth  upon  her  favorite  drum,  and 
sinking  into  a chair  behind  it,  called 
her  satellites  about  her,  and  to  them 
several  times  recounted,  word  for  word, 
the  affronts  she  had  received.  This 
done,  she  begged  them  in  a kind  of 
deep  despair  to  drink  ; then  laughed, 
then  cried,  then  took  a little  sip  her- 
self, then  laughed,  and  cried  again,  and 
took  a little  more;  and  so,  by  degrees, 
the  worthy  lady  went  on,  increasing 
in  smiles  and  decreasing  in  tears,  until 
at  last  she  could  not  laugh  enough  at 
Miss  Monflathers,  who,  from  being  an 
object  of  dire  vexation,  became  one 
of  sheer  ridicule  and  absurdity. 

“ For  which  of  us  is  best  off,  I won- 
der,” quoth  Mrs.  Jarley,  “she  or  me  ! 
It ’s  only  talking,  wben  all  is  said  and 
done ; and  if  she  talks  of  me  in  the 
stocks,  why,  I can  talk  of  her  in  the 
stocks,  which  is  a good  deal  funnier,  if 
we  come  to  that.  Lord,  what  does  it 
matter,  after  all ! ” 

Having  arrived  at.  this  comfortable 
frame  of  mind  (to  which  she  had  been 
greatly  assisted  by  certain  short  inter- 
jectional  remarks  of  the  philosophic 
George),  Mrs.  Jarley  consoled  Nell 
with  many  kind  words,  and  requested 
as  a personal  favor  that  whenever  she 
thought  of  Miss  Monflathers,  she  would 
do  nothing  else  but  laugh  at  her,  all 
the  days  of  her  life. 

So  ended  Mrs.  Jarley’s  wrath,  which 
subsided  long  before  the  going  down 
of  the  sun.  Nell’s  anxieties,  however, 
were  of  a deeper  kind,  and  the  checks 
they  imposed  upon  her  cheerfulness  were 
not  so  easily  removed. 

That  evening,  as  she  had  dreaded, 
her  grandfather  stole  away,  and  did  not 
come  back  until  the  night  was  far  spent. 


144 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


Worn  out  as  she  was,  and  fatigued  in 
mind  and  body,  she  sat  up  alone,  count- 
ing the  minutes  until  he  returned,  — 
penniless,  broken-spirited,  and  wretch- 
ed, but  still  hotly  bent  upon  his  infatua- 
tion. 

“Get  me  money,”  he  said  wildly,  as 
they  parted  for  the  night.  “ I must 
have  money,  Nell.  It  shall  be  paid 
thee  back  with  gallant  interest  one  day, 
but  all  the  money  that  comes  into  thy 
hands  must  be  mine,  — not  for  myself, 
but  to  use  for  thee.  Remember,  Nell, 
to  use  for  thee  ! ” 

What  could  the  child  do,  with  the 
knowledge  she  had,  but  give  him  every 
penny  that  came  into  her  hands,  lest  he 
should  be  tempted  on  to  rob  their  ben- 
efactress ? If  she  told  the  truth  (so 
thought  the  child),  he  would  be  treated 
as  a madman  ; if  she  did  not  supply  him 
with  money,  he  would  supply  himself; 
supplying  him,  she  fed  the  fire  that 
burnt  him  up,  and  put  him  perhaps 
beyond  recovery.  Distracted  by  these 
thoughts,  borne  down  by  the  weight  of 
the  sorrow  which  she  dared  not  tell, 
tortured  by  a crowd  of  apprehensions 
whenever  the  old  man  was  absent,  and 
dreading  alike  his  stay  and  his  return, 
the  color  forsook  her  cheek,  her  eye 
grew  dim,  and  her  heart  was  oppressed 
and  heavy.  All  her  old  sorrows  had 
come  back  upon  her,  augmented  by  new 
fears  and  doubts  ; by  day  they  were  ever 
resent  to  her  mind  ; by  night  they 
overed  round  her  pillow,  and  haunted 
her  in  dreams. 

It  was  natural  that,  in  the  midst  of 
her  affliction,  she  should  often  revert  to 
that  sweet  young  lady  of  whom  she  had 
only  caught  a hasty  glance,  but  whose 
sympathy,  expressed  in  one  slight,  brief 
action,  dwelt  in  her  memory  like  the 
kindnesses  of  years.  She  would  often 
think,  if  she  had  such  a friend  as  that 
to  whom  to  tell  her  griefs,  how  much 
lighter  her  heart  would  be,  — that  if  she 
were  but  free  to  hear  that  voice,  she 
would  be  happier.  Then  she  would 
wish  that  she  were  something  better, 
that  she  were  not  quite  so  poor  and 
humble,  that  she  dared  address  her 
without  fearing  a repulse  ; and  then  feel 
that  there  was  an  immeasurable  dis- 
tance between  them,  and  have  no  hope 


that  the  young  lady  thought  of  her  any 
more. 

It  was  now  holiday-time  at  the  schools, 
and  the  young  ladies  had  gone  home,  and 
Miss  Monflathers  was  reported  to  be 
flourishing  in  London,  and  damaging 
the  hearts  of  middle-aged  gentlemen  ; 
but  nobody  said  anything  about  Miss 
Edwards,  whether  she  had  gone  home, 
or  whether  she  had  any  home  to  go  to, 
w-hether  she  was  still  at  the  school,  or 
anything  about  her.  But  one  evening, 
as  Nell  was  returning  from  a lonely 
walk,  she  happened  to  pass  the  inn 
where  the  stage-coaches  stopped,  just 
as  one  drove  up,  and  there  was  the 
beautiful  girl  she  so  well  remembered, 
pressing  forward  to  embrace  a young 
child  whom  they  were  helping  down 
from  the  roof. 

Well,  this  was  her  sister,  her  little 
sister,  much  younger  than  Nell,  whom 
she  had  not  seen  (so  the  story  went  af- 
terwards) for  five  years,  and  to  bring 
whom  to  that  place  on  a short  visit,  she 
had  been  saving  her  poor  means  all  that 
time.  Nell  felt  a#  if  her  heart  would 
break  when  she  saw  them  meet.  They 
went  a little  apart  from  the  knot  of 
people  who  had  congregated  about  the 
coach,  and  fell  upon  each  other’s  neck, 
and  sobbed,  and  wept  with  joy.  Their 
plain  and  simple  dress,  the  distance 
which  the  child  had  come  alone,  their 
agitation  and  delight,  and  the  tears 
they  shed,  would  have  told  their  history 
by  themselves. 

They  became  a little  more  composed 
in  a short  time,  and  went  away,  not  so 
much  hand  in  hand  as  clinging  to  each 
other.  “Are  you  sure  you’re  happy, 
sister?”  said  the  child  as  they  passed 
where  Nell  was  standing.  “ Quite 
happy  now,”  she  answered.  “ But 
always  ? ” said  the  child.  “ Ah,  sister, 
why  do  you  turn  away  your  face  ? ” 

Nell  could  not  help  following  at  a 
little  distance.  They  went  to  the  house 
of  an  old  nurse,  where  the  elder  sister 
had  engaged  a bedroom  for  the  child. 

“ I shall  come  to  you  early  every  morn- 
ing,” she  said,  “ and  we  can  be  togeth- 
er all  the  day.”  — “ Why  not  at  night- 
time, too?  Dear  sister,  would  they  be 
angry  with  you  for  that  ? ” 

Why  were  the  eyes  of  little  Nell  wet. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


*45 


that  night,  with  tears  like  those  of  the 
two  sisters  ? Why  did  she  bear  a grate- 
ful heart  because  they  had  met,  and 
feel  it  pain  to  think  that  they  would 
shortly  part?  Let  us  not  believe  that 
any  selfish  reference  — unconscious 
though  it  might  have  been  — to  her 
own  trials  awoke  this  sympathy,  but 
thank  God  that  the  innocent  joys  of 
others  can  strongly  move  us,  and  that 
we,  even  in  our  fallen  nature,  have  one 
source  of  pure  emotion  which  must  be 
prized  in  heaven  ! 

By  morning’s  cheerful  glow,  but 
oftener  still  by  evening’s  gentle  light, 
the  child,  with  a respect  for  the  short 
and  happy  intercourse  of  these  two  sis- 
ters which  forbade  her  to  approach 
and  say  a thankful  word,  although  she 
yearned  to  do  so,  followed  them  at  a 
distance  in  their  walks  and  rambles, 
stopping  when  they  stopped,  sitting  on 
the  grass  when  they  sat  down,  rising 
when  they  went  on,  and  feeling  it  a 
companionship  and  delight  to  be  so 
near  them.  Their  evening  walk  was 
by  a river’s  side.  ^ Here,  every  night, 
the  child  was,  too,  ’unseen  by  them,  un- 
thought of,  unregarded ; but  feeling  as 
if  they  were  her  friends;  as  if  they  had 
confidences  and  trusts  together ; as  if 
her  load  were  lightened  and  less  hard  to 
bear ; as  if  they  mingled  their  sorrows, 
and  found  mutual  consolation.  It  was 
a weak  fancy  perhaps,  the  childish  fancy 
of  a young  and  lonely  creature ; but, 
night  after  night,  and  still  the  sisters 
loitered  in  the  same  place,  and  still  the 
child  followed  with  a mild  and  softened 
heart. 

She  was  much  startled,  on  returning 
home  one  night,  to  find  that  Mrs.  Jar- 
ley  had  commanded  an  announcement 
to  be  prepared  to  the  effect  that  the 
stupendous  collection  would  only  remain 
in  its  present  quarters  one  day  longer  ; 
in  fulfilment  of  which  threat  (for  all 
announcements  connected  with  public 
amusements  are  well  known  to  be  irrev- 
ocable and  most  exact),  the  stupendous 
collection  shut  up  next  day. 

“ Are  we  going  from  this  place  direct- 
ly, ma’am?”  said  Nell. 

“ Look  here,  child,”  returned  Mrs. 
Jarley.  “ That  ’ll  inform  you.”  And  so 
saying,  Mrs.  Jarley  produced  another 


announcement,  wherein  it  was  stated, 
that,  in  consequence  of  numerous  in- 
quiries at  the  wax-work  door,  and  in 
consequence  of  crowds  having  been  dis- 
appointed in  obtaining  admission,  the 
exhibition  would  be  continued  for  one 
week  longer,  and  would  reopen  next 
day. 

“For  now  that  the  schools  are  gone, 
and  the  regular  sight-seers  exhausted,” 
said  Mrs.  Jarley,  “we  come  to  the 
General  Public,  and  they  want  stimulat- 
ing.” 

Upon  the  following  day  at  noon,  Mrs. 
Jarley  established  herself  behind  the 
highly  ornamented  table,  attended  by 
the  distinguished  effigies  before  men- 
tioned, and  ordered  the  doors  to  be 
thrown  open  for  the  readmission  of  a 
discerning  and  enlightened  public.  But 
the  first  day’s  operations  were  by  no 
means  of  a successful  character,  inas- 
much as  the  general  public,  though 
they  manifested  a lively  interest  in  Mrs. 
Jarley  personally,  and  such  of  her  wax- 
en satellites  as  were  to  be  seen  for  noth- 
ing, were  not  affected  by  any  impulses 
moving  them  to  the  payment  of  sixpence 
a head.  Thus,  notwithstanding  that  a 
great  many  people  continued  to  stare  at 
the  entry  and  the  figures  therein  dis- 
played, and  remained  there  with  great 
perseverance,  by  the  hour  at  a time, 
to  hear  the  barrel-organ  played  and 
to  read  the  bills,  and  notwithstanding 
that  they  were  kind  enough  to  recom- 
mend their  friends  to  patronize  the  ex- 
hibition in  the  like  manner,  until  the 
doorway  was  regularly  blockaded  by 
half  the  population  of  the  town,  who, 
when  they  went  off  duty,  were  relieved 
by  the  other  half,  it  was  not  found  that 
the  treasury  was  any  the  richer,  or  that 
the  prospects  of  the  establishment  were 
at  all  encouraging. 

In  this  depressed  state  of  the  classical 
market,  Mrs.  Jarley  made  extraordinary 
efforts  to  stimulate  the  popular  taste 
and  whet  the  popular  curiosity.  Cer- 
tain machinery  in  the  body  of  the  nun 
on  the  leads  over  the  door  was  cleaned 
up  and  put  in  motion,  so  that  the  fig- 
ure shook  its  head  paralytically  all 
day  long,  to  the  great  admiration  of  a 
drunken,  but  very  Protestant,  barber 
over  the  way,  who  looked  upon  the  said 


io 


146 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


paralytic  motion  as  typical  of  the  de- 
grading effect  wrought  upon  the  human 
mind  by  the  ceremonies  of  the  Romish 
Church,  and  discoursed  upon  that  theme 
with  great  eloquence  and  morality. 
The  two  carters  constantly  passed  in 
and  out  of  the  exhibition-room,  under 
various  disguises,  protesting  aloud  that 
the  sight  was  better  worth  the  money 
than  anything  they  had  beheld  in  all 
their  lives,  and  urging  the  by-standers, 
with  tears  in  their  eyes,  not  to  neglect 
such  a brilliant  gratification.  Mrs.  Jar- 
ley  sat  in  the  pay-place,  chinking  silver 
moneys  from  noon  till  night,  and  sol- 
emnly calling  upon  the  crowd  to  take 
notice  that  the  price  of  admission  was 
only  sixpence,  and  that  the  departure 
of  the  whole  collection,  on  a short  tour 
among  the  Crowned  Heads  of  Europe, 
was  positively  fixed  for  that  day  week. 

“ So  be  in  time,  be  in  time,  be  in 
time,”  said  Mrs.  Jarley,  at  the  close  of 
every  such  address.  “ Remember  that 
this  is  Jarley’s  stupendous  collection  of 
upwards  of  one  Hundred  Figures,  and 
that  it  is  the  only  collection  in  the 
world ; all  others  being  impostors  and 
deceptions.  Be  in  time,  be  in  time,  be 
in  time  ! ” 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

As  the  course  of  this  tale  requires 
that  we  should  become  acquainted, 
somewhere  hereabouts,  with  a few  par- 
ticulars connected  with  the  domestic 
economy  of  Mr.  Sampson  Brass,  and 
as  a more  convenient  place  than  the 
present  is  not  likely  to  occur  for  that 
purpose,  the  historian  takes  the  friendly 
reader  by  the  hand,  and  springing  with 
him  into  the  air,  and  cleaving  the  same 
at  a greater  rate  than  ever  Don  Cleo- 
phas  Leandro  Perez  Zambullo  and  his 
familiar  travelled  through  that  pleasant 
region  in  company,  alights  with  him 
upon  the  pavement  of  Bevis  Marks. 

The  intrepid  aeronauts  alight  before 
a small  dark  house,  once  the  residence 
of  Mr.  Sampson  Brass. 

In  the  parlor  window  of  this  little 
habitation,  which  is  so  close  upon  the 
footway  that  the  passenger  who  takes 
the  wall  brushes  the  dim  glass  with  his 


coat-sleeve,  — much  to  its  improvement, 
for  it  is  very  dirty,  — in  this  parlor  win- 
dow in  the  days  of  its  occupation  by 
Sampson  Brass,  there  hung,  ail  awry 
and  slack,  and  discolored  by  the  sun,  a 
curtain  of  faded  green,  so  threadbare 
from  long  service  as  by  no  means  to 
intercept  the  view  of  the  little  dark 
room,  but  rather  to  afford  a favorable 
medium  through  which  to  observe  it 
accurately.  There  was  not  much  to 
look  at.  A rickety  table,  with  spare 
bundles  of  papers,  yellow  and  ragged 
from  long  carriage  in  the  pocket,  osten- 
tatiously displayed  upon  its  top ; a 
couple  of  stools  set  face  to  face  on 
opposite  sides  of  this  crazy  piece  of 
furniture  ; a treacherous  old  chair  by 
the  fireplace,  whose  withered  arms  had 
hugged  full  many  a client,  and  helped 
to  squeeze  him  dry ; a second-hand  wig- 
box,  used  as  a depository  for  blank 
writs  and  declarations  and  other  small 
forms  of  law,  once  the  sole  contents  of 
the  head  which  belonged  to  the  wig 
which  belonged  to  the  box,  as  they  were 
now  of  the  box  itself ; two  or  three 
common  books  of  practice  ; a jar  of  ink, 
a pounce-box,  a stunted  hearth-broom, 
a carpet  trodden  to  shreds,  but  still 
clinging  with  the  tightness  of  despera- 
tion to  its  tacks, — these,  with  the  yel- 
low wainscot  of  the  wails,  the  smoke- 
discolored  ceiling,  the  dust  and  cob- 
webs, were  among  the  most  prominent 
decorations  of  the  office  of  Mr.  Samp- 
son Brass. 

But  this  was  mere  still  - life  of  no 
greater  importance  than  the  plate, 
“ Brass,  Solicitor,”  upon  the  door,  and 
the  bill,  “ First  floor  to  let  to  a single 
gentleman,”  which  was  tied  to  the 
knocker.  The  office  commonly  held 
two  examples  of  animated  nature,  more 
to  the  purpose  of  this  history,  and  in 
whom  it  has  a stronger  interest  and 
more  particular  concern. 

Of  these,  one  was  Mr.  Brass  himself, 
who  has  already  appeared  in  these 
pages.  The  other  was  his  clerk,  assist- 
ant, housekeeper,  secretary,  confidential 
plotter,  adviser,  intriguer,  and  bill-of- 
cost  increaser,  — Miss  Brass,  a kind  of 
amazon  at  common  law,  of  whom  it 
may  be  desirable  to  offer  a brief  de- 
scription. 


Wf  U8fi4fiy 


SAMPSON  AND*  SALLY  BRASS. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


H7 


Miss  Sally  Brass,  then,  was  a lady  of 
thirty-five  or  thereabouts,  of  a gaunt 
and  bony  figure,  and  a resolute  bear- 
ing, which  if  it  repressed  the  softer 
emotions  of  love,  and  kept  admirers  at 
a distance,  certainly  inspired  a feeling 
akin  to  awe  in  the  breasts  of  those  male 
strangers  who  had  the  happiness  to  ap- 
proach her.  In  face  she  bore  a striking 
resemblance  to  her  brother  Sampson  ; 
so  exact,  indeed,  was  the  likeness  be- 
tween them,  that,  had  it  consorted  with 
Miss  Brass’s  maiden  modesty  and  gen- 
tle womanhood  to  have  assumed  her 
brother’s  clothes  in  a frolic  and  sat 
down  beside  him,  it  would  have  been 
difficult  for  the  oldest  friend  of  the 
family  to  determine  which  was  Samp- 
son and  which  Sally,  especially  as  the 
lady  carried  upon  her  upper  lip  certain 
reddish  demonstrations,  which,  if  the 
imagination*  had  been  assisted  by  her 
attire,  might  have  been  mistaken  for 
a beard.  These  were,  however,  in  all 
probability,  nothing  more  than  eye- 
lashes in  a wrong  place,  as  the  eyes  of 
Miss  Brass  were  quite  free  from  any 
such  natural  impertinences.  In  com- 
plexion Miss  Brass  was  sallow,  — rather 
a dirty  sallow,  so  to  speak,  — but  this 
hue  was  agreeably  relieved  by  the 
healthy  glow  which  mantled  in  the 
extreme  tip  of  her  laughing  nose.  Her 
voice  was  exceedingly  impressive,  — 
deep  and  rich  in  quality,  and,  once 
heard,  not  easily  forgotten.  Her  usual 
dress  was  a green  gown,  in  color  not 
unlike  the  curtain  of  the  office  window, 
made  tight  to  the  figure,  and  terminat- 
ing at  the  throat,  where  it  was  fastened 
behind  by  a peculiarly  large  and  mas- 
sive button.  Feeling,  no  doubt,  that 
simplicity  and  plainness  are  the  soul 
of  elegance,  Miss  Brass  wore  no  collar 
or  kerchief  except  upon  her  head, 
which  was  invariably  ornapiented  with 
a brown  gauze  scarf,  like  the  wing  of 
the  fabled  vampire,  and  which,  twisted 
into  any  form  that  happened  to  sug- 
gest itself,  formed  an  easy  and  graceful 
head-dress. 

Such  was  Miss  Brass  in  person.  In 
mind,  she  was  of  a strong  and  vigorous 
turn,  having  from  her  earliest  youth 
devoted  herself  with  uncommon  ardor 
to  the  study  of  the  law  ; not  wasting 


her  speculations  upon  its  eagle  flights, 
which  are  rare,  but  tracing  it  attentively 
through  all  the  slippery  and  eel-like 
crawlings  in  which  it  commonly  pur- 
sues its  way.  Nor  had  she,  like  many 
persons  of  great  intellect,  confined  her- 
self to  theory,  or  stopped  short  where 
practical  usefulness  begins ; inasmuch 
as  she  could  engross,  fair-copy,  fill  up 
printed  forms  with  perfect  accuracy, 
and,  in  short,  transact  any  ordinary  duty 
of  the  office,  down  to  pouncing  a skin 
of  parchment  or  mending  a pen.  It 
is  difficult  to  understand  how,  pos- 
sessed of  these  combined  attractions, 
she  should  remain  Miss  Brass;  but 
whether  she  had  steeled  her  heart 
against  mankind,  or  whether  those  who 
might  have  wooed  and  won  her  were 
deterred  by  fears  that,  being  learned  in 
the  law,  she  might  have  too  near  her 
fingers’  ends  those  particular  statutes 
which  regulate  what  are  familiarly 
termed  actions  for  breach,  certain  it  is 
that  she  was  still  in  a state  of  celibacy, 
and  still  in  daily  occupation  of  her  old 
stool  opposite  to  that  of  her  brother 
Sampson.  And  equally  certain  it  is, 
by  the  way,  that  between  these  two 
stools  a great  many  people  had  come  to 
the  ground. 

One  morning  Mr.  Sampson  Brass  sat 
upon  his  stool  copying  some  legal  pro- 
cess, and  viciously  digging  his  pen 
deep  into  the  paper,  as  if  he  were  writ- 
ing upon  the  very  heart  of  the  party 
against  whom  it  was  directed  ; and 
Miss  Sally  Brass  sat  upon  her  stool, 
making  a new  pen  preparatory  to  draw- 
ing out  a little  bill,  which  was  her  fa- 
vorite occupation  ; and  so  they  sat  in 
silence  for  a long  time,  until  Miss  Brass 
broke  silence. 

“Have  you  nearly  done,  Sammy?’* 
said  Miss  Brass  ; for  in  her  mild  and 
feminine  lips,  Sampson  became  Sammy, 
and  all  things  were  softened  down. 

“No,”  returned  her  brother.  “It 
would  have  been  all  done,  though,  if 
you  had  helped  at  the  right  time.” 

“O  yes,  indeed,”  cried  Miss  Sally; 
“you  want  my  help,  don’t  you? — youy 
too,  that  are  going  to  keep  a clerk  ! ” 

“ Am  I going  to  keep  a clerk  for  my 
own  pleasure,  or  because  of  my  own 
wish,  you  provoking  rascal  1 ” said  Mr, 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


t48 

Brass,  putting  his  pen  in  his  mouth,  and 
grinning  spitefully  at  his  sister.  “ What 
do  you  taunt  me  about  going  to  keep  a 
clerk  for  ? ” 

It  may  be  observed  in  this  place,  lest 
the  fact  of  Mr.  Brass  calling  a lady  a 
rascal  should  occasion  any  wonder- 
ment or  surprise,  that  he  was  so  habitu- 
ated to  having  her  near  him  in  a man’s 
capacity,  that  he  had  gradually  accus- 
tomed himself  to  talk  to  her  as  though 
she  were  really  a man.  And  this  feel- 
ing was  so  perfectly  reciprocal,  that  not 
only  did  Mr.  Brass  often  call  Miss  Brass 
a rascal,  or  even  put  an  adjective  before 
the  rascal,  but  Miss  Brass  looked  upon 
it  as  quite  a matter  of  course,  and  was 
as  little  moved  as  any  other  lady  would 
be  by  being  called  an  angel. 

“ What  do  you  taunt  me,  after  three 
hours’  talk  last  night,  with  going  to  keep 
a clerk  for?”  repeated  Mr.  Brass,  grin- 
ning again  with  the  pen  in  his  mouth, 
like  some  nobleman’s  or  gentleman’s 
crest.  “ Is  it  my  fault  ? ” 

“All  I know  is,”  said  Miss  Sally, 
smiling  dryly,  for  she  delighted  in  noth- 
ing so  much  as  irritating  her  brother, 
“ that  if  every  one  of  your  clients  is  to 
force  us  to  keep  a clerk,  whether  we 
want  to  or  not,  you  had  better  leave  off 
business,  strike  yourself  off  the  roll,  and 
get  taken  in  execution  as  soon  as  you 
can.” 

“ Have  we  got  any  other  client  like 
him  ? ” said  Brass.  “ Have  we  got 
another  client  like  him,  now,  — will  you 
answer  me  that  ? ” 

“Do  you  mean  in  the  face?”  said 
his  sister. 

“ Do  I mean  in  the  face  ! ” sneered 
Sampson  Brass,  reaching  over  to  take 
up  the  bill-book,  and  fluttering  its 
leaves  rapidly.  “Look  here  — Daniel 
Quilp,  Esquire  — Daniel  Quilp,  Esquire 
— Daniel  Quilp,  Esquire  — all  through. 
Whether  should  I take  a clerk  that  he 
recommends,  and  says,  ‘ This  is  the  man 
for  you,’  or  lose  all  this,  — eh  ? ” 

Miss  Sally  deigned  to  make  no  reply, 
but  smiled  again,  and  went  on  with  her 
work. 

“ But  I know  what  it  is,”  resumed 
Brass,  after  a short  silence.  “You  ’re 
afraid  you  won’t  have  as  long  a finger 
in  the  business  as  you ’ve  been  used  to 


have.  Do  you  think  I don’t  see  through 
that?” 

“ The  business  wouldn’t  go  on  very 
long,  I expect,  without  me,”  returned 
his  sister,  composedly.  “ Don’t  you  be 
a fool  and  provoke  me,  Sammy,  but 
mind  what  you  ’re  doing,  and  do  it.” 
Sampson  Brass,  who  was  at  heart  in 
reat  fear  of  his  sister,  sulkily  bent  over 
is  writing  again,  and  listened  as  she 
said,  — 

“ If  I determined  that  the  clerk 
ought  not  to  come,  of  course  he 
wouldn’t  be  allowed  to  come.  You 
know  that  well  enough,  so  don’t  talk 
nonsense.” 

Mr.  Brass  received  this  observation 
with  increased  meekness,  merely  re- 
marking, under  his  breath,  that  he 
didn’t  like  that  kind  of  joking,  and  that 
Miss  Sally  would  be  “ a much  better  fel- 
low ” if  she  forebore  to  aggravate  him. 
To  this  compliment  Miss  Sally  replied, 
that  she  had  a relish  for  the  amusement, 
and  had  no  intention  to  forego  its  grati- 
fication. Mr.  Brass  not  caring,  as  it 
seemed,  to  pursue  the  subject  any  fur- 
ther, they  both  plied  their  pens  at  a 
great  pace,  and  there  the  discussion 
ended. 

While  they  were  thus  employed,  the 
window  was  suddenly  darkened,  as  by 
some  person  standing  close  against  it. 
As  Mr.  Brass  and  Miss  Sally  looked  up 
to  ascertain  the  cause,  the  top  sash  was 
nimbly  lowered  from  without,  and  Quilp 
thrust  in  his  head. 

“ Hallo  ! ” he  said,  standing  on  tip- 
toe on  the  window-sill,  and  looking 
down  into  the  room.  “Is  there  any- 
body at  home?  Is  there  any  of  the 
Devil’s  ware  here?  Is  Brass  at  a pre- 
mium, eh?  ” 

“ Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ” laughed  the  lawyer, 
in  an  affected  ecstasy.  “ O,  very  good, 
sir  ! O,  very  good  indeed  ! Quite  ec- 
centric ! Dear  me,  what  humor  he  has !” 
“ Is  that  my  Sally  ? ” croaked  the 
dwarf,  ogling  the  fair  Miss  Brass.  “Is 
it  Justice  with  the  bandage  off  her  eyes, 
and  without  the  sword  and  scales  ? Is 
it  the  Strong  Arm  of  the  Law?  Is  it 
the  Virgin  of  Bevis?” 

“ What  an  amazing  flow  of  spirits  ! ” 
cried  Brass.  “ Upon  my  word,  it ’s 
quite  extraordinary  ! ” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“ Open  the  door,”  said  Quilp.  “ I ’ve 
got  him  here.  Such  a clerk  for  you, 
Brass,  such  a prize,  such  an  ace  of 
trumps.  Be  quick  and  open  the  door, 
or,  if  there ’s  another  lawyer  near  and 
he  should  happen  to  look  out  of  win- 
dow, he  ’ll  snap  him  up  before  your 
eyes,  he  will.” 

It  is  probable  that  the  loss  of  the  phoe- 
nix of  clerks,  even  to  a rival  practitioner, 
would  not  have  broken  Mr.  Brass’s 
heart ; but,  pretending  great  alacrity, 
he  rose  from  his  seat,  and  going  to  the 
door,  returned,  introducing  his  client, 
who  led  by  the  hand  no  less  a person 
than  Mr.  Richard  Swiveller. 

“There  she  is,”  said  Quilp,  stopping 
short  at  the  door,  and  wrinkling  up  his 
eyebrows  as  he  looked  towards  Miss 
Sally  ; “ there  is  the  woman  I ought  to 
have  married ; there  is  the  beautiful 
Sarah  ; there  is  the  female  who  has  all 
the  charms  of  her  sex  and  none  of  their 
weaknesses.  O Sally,  Sally  ! ” 

To  this  amorous  address  Miss  Brass 
briefly  responded,  “ Bother  ! ” 

“ Hard-hearted  as  the  metal  from 
which  she  takes  her  name,”  said  Quilp. 
“ Why  don’t  she  change  it,  — melt  down 
the  brass,  and  take  another  name  ? ” 

“ Hold  your  nonsense,  Mr.  Quilp, 
do,”  returned  Miss  Sally,  with  a grim 
smile.  “ I wonder  you  ’re  not  ashamed 
of  yourself  before  a strange  young 
man  ! ” 

“The  strange  young  man,”  said 
Quilp,  handing  Dick  Swiveller  forward, 
“ is  too  susceptible  himself  not  to  un- 
derstand me  well.  This  is  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler, my  intimate  friend,  — a gentleman 
of  good  family  and  great  expectations, 
but  who,  having  rather  involved  him- 
self by  youthful  indiscretion,  is  content 
for  a time  to  fill  the  humble  station  of  a 
clerk,  — humble,  but  here  most  enviable. 
What  a delicious  atmosphere  ! ” 

If  Mr.  Quilp  spoke  figuratively,  and 
meant  to  imply  that  the  air  breathed  by 
Miss  Sally  Brass  was  sweetened  and 
rarefied  by  that  dainty  creature,  he  had 
doubtless  good  reason  for  what  he  said. 
But  if  he  spoke  of  the  delights  of  the 
atmosphere  of  Mr.  Brass’s  office  in  a 
literal  sense,  he  had  certainly  a peculiar 
taste,  as  it  was  of  a close  and  earthy 
kind,  and,  besides  being  frequently  im- 


pregnated with  strong  whiffs  of  the  sec- 
ond-hand wearing  apparel  exposed  fl»r 
sale  in  Duke’s  Place  and  Houndsditch, 
had  a decided  flavor  of  rats  and  mice, 
and  a taint  of  mouldiness.  Perhaps 
some  doubts  of  its  pure  delight  pre- 
sented themselves  to  Mr.  Swiveller,  as 
he  gave  vent  to  one  or  two  short,  abrupt 
sniffs, , and  looked  incredulously  at  the 
grinning  dwarf. 

“Mr.  Swiveller,”  said  Quilp,  “being 
pretty  well  accustomed  to  the  agricultu- 
ral pursuits  of  sowing  wild  oats,  Miss 
Sally,  prudently  considers  that  half  a 
loaf  is  better  than  no  bread.  To  be 
out  of  harm’s  way  he  prudently  thinks 
is  something  too,  and  therefore  he  ac- 
cepts your  brother’s  offer.  Brass,  Mr. 
Swiveller  is  yours.” 

“ I am  very  glad,  sir,”  said  Mr. 
Brass,  — “ very  glad  indeed.  Mr.  Swi- 
veller, sir,  is  fortunate  to  have  your 
friendship.  You  may  be  very  proud, 
sir,  to  have  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Quilp.” 

Dick  murmured  something  about  nev- 
er wanting  a friend  or  a bottle  to  give 
him,  and  also  gasped  forth  his  favor- 
ite allusion  to  the  wing  of  friendship 
and  its  never  moulting  a feather ; but 
his  faculties  appeared  to  be  absorbed 
in  the  contemplation  of  Miss  Sally 
Brass,  at  whom  he  stared  with  blank 
and  rueful  looks,  which  delighted  the 
watchful  dwarf  beyond  measure.  As 
to  the  divine  Miss  Sally  herself,  she 
rubbed  her  hands  as  men  of  business 
do,  and  took  a few  turns  up  and  down 
the  office  with  her  pen  behind  her  ear. 

“ I suppose,”  said  the  dwarf,  turning 
briskly  to  his  legal  friend,  “ that  Mr. 
Swiveller  enters  upon  his  duties  at 
once  ? It ’s  Monday  morning.” 

“At  once,  if  you  please,  sir,  by  all 
means,”  returned  Brass. 

“Miss  Sally  will  teach  him  law', 
the  delightful  study  of  the  law,”  said 
Quilp  ; “ she  ’ll  be  his  guide,  his  friend, 
his  companion,  his  Blackstone,  his  Coke 
upon  Littleton,  his  Young  Lawyer’s 
Best  Companion.” 

“He  is  exceedingly  eloquent,”  said 
Brass,  like  a man  abstracted,  and  look- 
ing at  the  roofs  of  the  opposite  houses, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets:  “he 
has  an  extraordinary  flow  of  language. 
Beautiful,  really.” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


iso 

“With  Miss  Sally,”  Quilp  went  on, 
“and  the  beautiful  fictions  of  the  law, 
his  days  will  pass  like  minutes.  'J’hose 
charming  creations  of  the  poet,  John 
Doe  and  Richard  Roe,  when  they  first 
dawn  upon  him,  will  open  a new  world 
for  the  enlargement  of  his  mind  and  the 
improvement  of  his  heart.” 

“ O,  beautiful,  beautiful  ! Beau-ti-ful 
indeed  ! ” cried  Brass.  “ It ’s  a treat 
to  hear  him  ! ” 

“Where  will  Mr.  Swiveller  sit?” 
said  Quilp,  looking  round. 

“ Why,  we  ’ll  buy  another  stool,  sir,” 
returned  Brass.  “We  hadn’t  any 
thoughts  of  having  a gentleman  with  us, 
sir,  until  you  were  kind  enough  to  sug- 
gest it,  and  our  accommodation ’s  not 
extensive.  We  ’ll  look  about  for  a sec- 
ond-hand stool,  sir.  In  the  mean  time, 
if  Mr.  Swiveller  will  take  my  seat,  and 
try  his  hand  at  a fair  copy  of  this  eject- 
ment, as  I shall  be  out  pretty  well  all 
the  morning  — ” 

“Walk  with  me,”  said  Quilp.  “I 
have  a word  or  two  to  say  to  you  on 
points  of  business.  Can  you  spare  the 
time  ? ” 

“ Can  I spare  the  time  to  walk  with 
you,  sir?  You’re  joking,  sir,  you’re 
joking  with  me,”  replied  the  lawyer, 
putting  on  his  hat.  “I’m  ready,  sir, 
quite  ready.  My  time  must  be  fully 
occupied  indeed,  sir,  not  to  leave  me 
time  to  walk  with  you.  It ’s  not  every- 
body, sir,  who  has  an  opportunity  of 
improving  himself  by  the  conversation 
of  Mr.  Quilp.” 

The  dwarf  glanced  sarcastically  at 
his  brazen  friend,  and,  with  a short 
dry  cough,  turned  upon  his  heel  to  bid 
adieu  to  Miss  Sally.  After  a very  gal- 
lant parting  on  his  side,  and  a very  cool 
and  gentlemanly  sort  of  one  on  hers, 
he  nodded  to  Dick  Swiveller,  and  with- 
drew with  the  attorney. 

Dick  stood  at  the  desk  in  a state  of 
utter  stupefaction,  staring  with  all  his 
might  at  the  beauteous  Sally,  as  if  she 
had  been  some  curious  animal  whose 
like  had  never  lived.  When  the  dwarf 
got  into  the  street,  he  mounted  again 
upon  the  window-sill,  and  looked  into 
the  office  for  a moment  with  a grinning 
face,  as  a man  might  peep  into  a cage. 
Dick  glanced  upward  at  him,  but  with- 


out any  token  of  recognition ; and  long 
after  he  had  disappeared,  still  stood 
gazing  upon  Miss  Sally  Brass,  seeing 
or  thinking  of  nothing  else,  and  rooted 
to  the  spot. 

Miss  Brass,  being  by  this  time  deep 
in  the  bill  of  costs,  took  no  notice  what- 
ever of  Dick,  but  went  scratching  on, 
with  a noisy  pen,  scoring  down  the 
figures  with  evident  delight,  and  work- 
ing like  a steam-engine.  There  stood 
Dick,  gazing  now  at  the  green  gown, 
now  at  the  brown  head-dress,  now  at 
the  face,  and  now  at  the  rapid  pen,  in 
a state  of  stupid  perplexity,  wondering 
how  he  got  into  the  company  of  that 
strange  monster,  and  whether  it  was 
a dream  and  he  would  ever  wake.  At 
last  he  heaved  a deep  sigh,  and  began 
slowly  pulling  off  his  coat. 

Mr.  Swiveller  pulled  off  his  coat,  and 
folded  it  up  with  great  elaboration, 
staring  at  Miss  Sally  all  the  time  ; then 
put  on  a blue  jacket  with  a double  row 
of  gilt  buttons,  w'hich  he  had  originally 
ordered  for  aquatic  expeditions,  but 
had  brought  with  him  that  morning  for 
office  purposes ; and  still  keeping  his 
eye  upon  her,  suffered  himself  to  drop 
down  silently  upon  Mr.  Brass’s  stool. 
Then  he  underwent  a relapse,  and,  be- 
coming powerless  again,  rested  his  chin 
upon  his  hand,  and  opened  his  eyes  so 
wide  that  it  appeared  quite  out  of  the 
question  that  he  could  ever  close  them 
any  more. 

When  he  had  looked  so  long  that  he 
could  see  nothing,  Dick  took  his  eye.s 
off  the  fair  object  of  his  amazement, 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  draft  he 
was  to  copy,  dipped  his  pen  into  the 
inkstand,  and  at  last,  and  by  slow  ap- 
proaches, began  to  write.  But  he  had 
not  written  half  a dozen  words,  when, 
reaching  over  to  the  inkstand  to  take  a 
fresh  dip,  he  happened  to  raise  his  eyes. 
There  was  the  intolerable  brown  head- 
dress, — there  was  the  green  gown,  — 
there,  in  short,  was  Miss  Sally  Brass, 
arrayed  in  all  her  charms,  and  more 
tremendous  than  ever. 

This  happened  so  often  that  Mr. 
Swiveller  by  degrees  began  to  feel 
strange  influences  creeping  over  him, 
— horrible  desires  to  annihilate  this 
Sally  Brass,  — mysterious  promptings 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


151 


to  knock  her  head-dress  off  and  try  how 
she  looked  without  it.  There  was  a 
very  large  ruler  on  the  table,  — a large, 
black,  shining  ruler.  Mr.  Swiveller 
took  it  up  and  began  to  rub  his  nose 
with  it. 

From  rubbing  his  nose  with  the  ruler, 
to  poising  it  in  his  hand  and  giving  it 
an  occasional  flourish  after  the  toma- 
hawk manner,  the  transition  was  easy 
and  natural.  In  some  of  these  flour- 
ishes it  went  close  to  Miss  Sally’s  head ; 
the  ragged  edges  of  the  head-dress 
fluttered  with  the  wind  it  raised ; ad- 
vance it  but  an  inch,  and  that  great 
brown  knot  was  on  the  ground : yet 
still  the  unconscious  maiden  worked 
away,  and  never  raised  her  eyes. 

Well,  this  was  a great  relief.  It  was 
a good  thing  to  write  doggedly  and  ob- 
stinately until  he  was  desperate,  and 
then  snatch  up  the  ruler  and  whirl  it 
about  the  brown  head-dress  with  the 
consciousness  that  he  could  have  it  off 
if  he  liked.  It  was  a good  thing  to 
draw  it  back,  and  rub  his  nose  very 
hard  with  it,  if  he  thought  Miss  Sally 
was  going  to  look  up,  and  to  recom- 
pense himself  with  more  hardy  flour- 
ishes when  he  found  she  was  still  ab- 
sorbed. By  these  means  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler calmed  the  agitation  of  his  feelings, 
until  his  applications  to  the  ruler  be- 
came less  fierce  and  frequent,  and  he 
could  even  write  as  many  as  half  a 
dozen  consecutive  lines  without  having 
recourse  to  it, — which  was  a great 
victory. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

In  course  of  time,  that  is  to  say, 
after  a couple  of  hours  or  so  of  dili- 
gent application,  Miss  Brass  arrived 
at  the  conclusion  of  her  task,  and  re- 
corded the  fact  by  wiping  her  pen  upon 
the  green  gown,  and  taking  a pinch 
of  snuff  from  a little  round  tin  box 
which  she  carried  in  her  pocket.  Hav- 
ing disposed  of  this  temperate  refresh- 
ment, she  arose  from  her  stool,  tied 
her  papers  into  a formal  packet  with 
red  tape,  and,  taking  them  under  her 
arm,  marched  out  of  the  office. 

Mr.  Swiveller  had  scarcely  sprung 


| off  his  seat  and  commenced  the  per- 
formance of  a maniac  hornpipe,  when 
he  was  interrupted,  in  the  fulness  of 
his  joy  at  being  again  alone,  by  the 
opening  of  the  door,  and  the  reappear- 
ance of  Miss  Sally’s  head. 

“ I am  going  out,”  said  Miss  Brass. 

“Very  good,  ma’am,”  returned  Dick. 
“And  don’t  hurry  yourself  on  my  ac- 
count to  come  back,  ma’am,”  he  added 
inwardly. 

“If  anybody  comes  on  office  busi- 
ness, take  their  messages,  and  say 
that  the  gentleman  who  attends  to  that 
matter  isn’t  in  at  present,  will  you?” 
said  Miss  Brass. 

“ I will,  ma’am,”  replied  Dick. 

“I  sha’n’t  be  very  long,”  said  Mis* 
Brass,  retiring. 

“ I ’m  sorry  to  hear  it,  ma’am,”  re- 
joined Dick,  when  she  had  shut  the 
door.  “ I hope  you  may  be  unexpect- 
edly detained,  ma’am.  If  you  could 
manage  to  be  run  over,  ma’am,  but 
not  seriously,  so  much  the  better.” 

Uttering  these  expressions  of  good- 
will with  extreme  gravity,  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler sat  down  in  the  client’s  chair  and 
pondered ; then  took  a few  turns  up 
and  down  the  room  and  fell  into  the 
chair  again. 

“ So  I ’m  Brass’s  clerk,  am  I ? ” said 
Dick.  “ Brass’s  clerk,  eh  ? And  the 
clerk  of  Brass’s  sister,  — clerk  to  a fe- 
male Dragon.  Very  good,  very  good  ! 
What  shall  I be  next?  Shall  I be  a 
convict  in  a felt  hat  and  a gray  suit, 
trotting  about  a dock-yard  with  my 
number  neatly  embroidered  on  my 
uniform,  and  the  order  of  the  garter 
on  my  leg,  restrained  from  chafing  my 
ankle  by  a twisted  belcher  handker- 
chief? > Shall  I be  that  ? Will  that 
do,  or  is  it  too  genteel  ? Whatever  you 
please,  have  it  your  own  way,  of  course.” 

As  he  was  entirely  alone,  it  may  be 
presumed  that,  in  these  remarks,  Mr. 
Swiveller  addressed  himself  to  his  fate 
or  destiny,  whom,  as  we  learn  by  the 
precedents,  it  is  the  custom  of  heroes 
to  taunt  in  a very  bitter  and  ironical 
manner  when  they  find  themselves  in 
situations  of  an  unpleasant  nature. 
This  is  the  more  probable  from  the 
circumstance  of  Mr.  Swiveller  direct- 
ing his  observations  to  the  ceiling,  which 


152 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


these  bodiless  personages  are  usually 
supposed  to  inhabit,  — except  in  theat- 
rical cases,  when  they  live  in  the  heart 
of  the  great  chandelier. 

“ Quilp  offers  me  this  place,  which 
he  says  he  can  insure  me,”  resumed 
Dick,  after  a thoughtful  silence,  and 
telling  off  the  circumstances  of  his 
position,  one  by  one,  upon  his  fingers ; 
“ Fred,  who,  I could  have  taken  my 
affidavit,  would  not  have  heard  of  such 
a thing,  backs  Quilp  to  my  astonish- 
ment, and  urges  me  to  take  it  also,  — 
staggerer  number  one  ! My  aunt  in 
the  country  stops  the  supplies,  and 
writes  an  affectionate  note  to  say  that 
she  has  made  a new  will,  and  left  me 
out  of  it,  — staggerer  number  two  ! 
No  money;  no  credit;  no  support 
from  Fred,  who  seems  to  turn  steady 
all  at  once ; notice  to  quit  the  old 
lodgings,  — staggerers  three,  four,  five, 
and  six  ! Under  an  accumulation  of 
staggerers,  no  man  can  be  considered 
a free  agent.  No  man  knocks  himself 
down  ; if  his  destiny  knocks  him  down, 
his  destiny  must  pick  him  up  again. 
Then  I ’m  very  glad  that  mine  has 
brought  all  this  upon  itself,  and  I shall 
be  as  careless  as  I can  and  make  my- 
self quite  at  home  to  spite  it.  So  go 
on,  my  buck,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  tak- 
ing his  leave  of  the  ceiling  with  a sig- 
nificant nod,  “and  let  us  see  which  of 
us  will  be  tired  first  ! ” 

Dismissing  the  subject  of  his  down- 
fall with  these  reflections,  which  were 
no  doubt  very  profound,  and  are  indeed 
not  altogether  unknown  in  certain  sys- 
tems of  moral  philosophy,  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler shook  off  his  despondency  and  as- 
sumed the  cheerful  ease  of  an  irrespon- 
sible clerk. 

As  a means  towards  his  composure 
and  self-possession,  he  entered  into  a 
more  minute  examination  of  the  office 
than  he  had  yet  had  time  to  make  ; 
looked  into  the  wig-box,  the  books, 
and  ink-bottle  ; untied  and  inspected 
all  the  papers  ; carved  a few  devices  on 
the  table  with  the  sharp  blade  of  Mr. 
Brass’s  penknife ; and  wrote  his  name 
on  the  inside  of  the  w’ooden  coal-scut- 
tle. Having,  as  it  were,  taken  formal 
possession  of  his  clerkship  in  virtue  of 
these  proceedings,  he  opened  the  win- 


dow and  leaned  negligently  out  of  it 
until  a beer-boy  happened  to  pass,  whom 
he  commanded  to  set  down  his  tray 
and  to  serve  him  with  a pint  of  mild 
porter,  which  he  drank  upon  the  spot 
and  promptly  paid  for,  with  the  view 
of  breaking  ground  for  a system  of 
future  credit,  and  opening  a correspon- 
dence tending  thereto,  without  loss  of 
time.  Then  three  or  four  little  boys 
dropped  in,  on  legal  errands  from  three 
or  four  attorneys  of  the  Brass  grade, 
whom  Mr.  Swiveller  received  and  dis- 
missed with  about  as  professional  a 
manner,  and  as  correct  and  comprehen- 
sive an  understanding  of  their  business, 
as  would  have  been  shown  by  a clown 
in  a pantomime  under  similar  circum- 
stances. These  things  done  and  over, 
he  got  upon  his  stool  again  and  tried 
his  hand  at  drawing  caricatures  of  Miss 
Brass  with  a pen  and  ink,  whistling 
very  cheerfully  all  the  time. 

He  was  occupied  in  this  diversion 
when  a coach  stopped  near  the  door, 
and  presently  afterwards  there  was  a 
loud  double-knock.  As  this  was  no 
business  of  Mr.  Swiveller’s,  the  per- 
son not  ringing  the  office-bell,  he  pur- 
sued his  diversion  with  perfect  compo- 
sure, notwithstanding  that  he  rather 
thought  there  was  nobody  else  in  the 
house. 

In  this,  however,  he  was  mistaken ; for, 
after  the  knock  had  been  repeated  with 
increased  impatience,  the  door  was 
opened,  and  somebody  with  a very 
heavy  tread  went  up  the  stairs  and  in- 
to the  room  above.  Mr.  Swiveller  was 
wondering  whether  this  might  be  an- 
other Miss  Brass,  twin-sister  to  the 
Dragon,  when  there  came  a rapping  of 
knuckles  at  the  office  door. 

“ Come  in  ! ” said  Dick.  “ Don’t 
stand  upon  ceremony.  The  business 
will  get  rather  complicated  if  I ’ve 
many  more  customers.  Come  in  ! ” 

“ O,  please,”  said  a little  voice  very 
low  down  in  the  doorway,  “will  you 
come  and  show  the  lodgings?” 

Dick  leant  over  the  table,  and  de- 
scried a small  slipshod  girl  in  a dirty 
coarse  apron  and  bib,  which  left  noth- 
ing of  her  visible  but  her  face  and 
feet.  She  might  as  well  have  been 
dressed  in  a violin-case. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


153 


“ Why,  who  are  you?  ” said  Dick. 

To  which  the  only  reply  was,  “ O, 
please,  will  you  come  and  show  the 
lodgings  ? ” 

There  never  was  such  an  old-fashioned 
child  in  her  looks  and  manner.  She 
must  have  been  at  work  from  her  cra- 
dle. She  seemed  as  much  afraid  of 
Dick  as  Dick  was  amazed  at  her. 

“ I have  n’t  got  anything  to  do  with  the 
lodgings,”  said  Dick.  “ Tell  ’em  to  call 
again.” 

“ O,  but  please  will  you  come  and 
show  the  lodgings,”  returned  the  girl; 
“ it ’s  eighteen  shillings  a week  and 
us  finding  plate  and  linen.  Boots  and 
clothes  is  extra,  and  fires  in  winter 
time  is  eightpence  a day.” 

“ Why  don’t  you  show  ’em  yourself? 
You  seem  to  know  all  about  ’em,”  said 
Dick. 

“ Miss  Sally  said  I was  n’t  to,  because 
people  would  n’t  believe  the  attendance 
was  good  if  they  saw  how  small  I was 
first.”  • 

“Well,  but  they’ll  see  how  small 
you  are  afterwards,  won’t  they?”  said 
Dick. 

“ Ah  ! But  then  they  ’ll  have  taken 
’em  for  a fortnight,  certain,”  replied  the 
child  with  a shrewd  look  ; “and  people 
don’t  like  moving  when  they  ’re  once 
settled.” 

“ This  is  a queer  sort  of  thing,”  mut- 
tered Dick,  rising.  “ What  do  you  mean 
to  say  you  are,  — the  cook  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I do  plain  cooking,”  replied  the 
child.  “ I ’m  housemaid  too  ; I do  all 
the  work  of  the  house.” 

“ I suppose  Brass  and  the  Dragon  and 
I do  the  dirtiest  part  of  it,”  thought 
Dick.  And  he  might  have  thought 
much  more,  being  in  a doubtful  and 
hesitating  mood,  but  that  the  girl  again 
urged  her  request,  and  certain  mysterious 
bumping  sounds  on  the  passage  and 
staircase  seemed  to  give  note  of  the 
applicant’s  impatience.  Richard  Swiv- 
eller,  therefore,  sticking  a pen  behind 
each  ear,  and  carrying  another  in  his 
mouth  as  a token  of  his  great  impor- 
tance and  devotion  to  business,  hurried 
out  to  meet  and  treat  with  the  single 
gentleman. 

He  was  a little  surprised  to  perceive 
that  the  bumping  sounds  were  occa- 


sioned by  the  progress  up  stairs  of  the 
single  gentleman’s  trunk,  which,  being 
nearly  twice  as  wide  as  the  staircase, 
and  exceedingly  heavy  withal,  it  was 
no  easy  matter  for  the  united  exertions 
of  the  single  gentleman  and  the  coach- 
man to  convey  up  the  steep  ascent. 
But  there  they  were,  crushing  each 
other,  and  pushing  and  pulling  with 
all  their  might,  and  getting  the  trunk 
tight  and  fast  in  all  kinds  of  impossi- 
ble angles,  and  to  pass  them  was  out 
of  the  question ; for  which  sufficient 
reason,  Mr.  Swiveller  followed  slowly 
behind,  entering  a new  protest  on  ev- 
ery stair  against  the  house  of  Mr. 
Sampson  Brass  being  thus  taken  by 
storm. 

To  these  remonstrances,  the  single 
gentleman  answered  not  a word,  but 
when  the  trunk  was  at  last  got  into  the 
bedroom,  sat  down  upon  it  and  wiped 
his  bald  head  and  face  with  his  hand- 
kerchief. He  was  very  warm,  and  well 
he  might  be  ; for,  not  to  mention  the 
exertion  of  getting  the  trunk  up  stairs, 
he  was  closely  muffled  in  winter  gar- 
ments, though  the  thermometer  had 
stood  all  day  at  eighty-one  in  the 
shade. 

“ I believe,  sir,”  said  Richard  Swivel- 
ler, taking  his  pen  out  of  his  mouth, 
“ that  you  desire  to  look  at  these  apart- 
ments. They  are  very  charming  apart- 
ments, sir.  They  command  an  uninter- 
rupted view  of — of  over  the  way,  and 
they  are  within  one  minute ’s  wralk  of — 
of  the  corner  of  the  street.  There  is 
exceedingly  mild  porter,  .sir,  in  the 
immediate  vicinity,  and  the  contingent 
advantages  are  extraordinary.” 

“ What ’s  the  rent  ? ” said  the  single 
gentleman. 

“ One  pound  per  week,”  replied  Dick, 
improving  on  the  terms. 

“ I ’ll  take  ’em.” 

“ The  boots  and  clothes  are  extras,” 
said  Dick;  “and  the  fires  in  winter 
time  are  — ” 

“Are  all  agreed  to,”  answered  the 
single  gentleman. 

“Two  weeks  certain,”  said  Dick, 
“are  the  — ” 

“Two  weeks!”  cried  the  single 
gentleman  gruffly,  eying  him  from  top 
to  toe.  “Two  years.  I shall  live  here 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


i54 

for  two  years.  Here.  Ten  pounds 
down.  The  bargain ’s  made.” 

“Why,  you  see,”  said  Dick,  “my 
name ’s  not  Brass,  and  — ” 

“ Who  said  it  was  ? My  name  ’s  not 
Brass.  What  then?” 

“The  name  of  the  master  of  the 
house  is,”  said  Dick. 

“ I ’m  glad  of  it,”  returned  the  single 
gentleman;  “it’s  a good  name  for  a 
lawyer.  Coachman,  you  may  go.  So 
may  you,  sir.” 

Mr.  Svviveller  was  so  much  confound- 
ed by  the  single  gentleman  riding 
roughshod  over  him  at  this  rate,  that  he 
stood  looking  at  him  almost  as  hard  as 
he  had  looked  at  Miss  Sally.  The 
single  gentleman,  however,  was  not  in 
the  slightest  degree  affected  by  this 
circumstance,  but  proceeded  with  per- 
fect composure  to  unwind  the  shawl 
which  was  tied  round  his  neck,  and 
then  to  pull  off  his  boots.  Freed  of 
these  encumbrances,  he  went  on  to 
divest  himself  of  his  other  clothing, 
which  he  folded  up,  piece  by  piece,  and 
ranged  in  order  on  the  trunk.  Then 
he  pulled  down  the  window-blinds, 
drew  the  curtains,  wound  up  his  watch, 
and  quite  leisurely  and  methodically 
got  into  bed. 

“Take  down  the  bill,”  were  his  part- 
ing words,  as  he  looked  out  from  be- 
tween the  curtains  ; “ and  let  nobody 
call  me  till  I ring  the  bell.” 

With  that  the  curtains  closed,  and  he 
seemed  to  snore  immediately. 

“ This  is  a most  remarkable  and 
supernatural  sort  of  house  !”  said  Mr. 
Swiveller,  as  he  walked  into  the  office 
with  the  bill  in  his  hand.  “ She  drag- 
ons in  the  business,  conducting  them- 
selves like  professional  gentlemen ; 
plain  cooks  of  three  feet  high  appearing 
mysteriously  from  underground  ; stran- 
gers walking  in  and  going  to  bed  with- 
out leave  or  license  in  the  middle  of 
the  day  ! If  he  should  be  one  of  the 
miraculous  fellows  that  turn  up  now 
and  then,  and  has  gone  to  sleep  for  two 
years,  I shall  be  in  a pleasant  situation. 
It’s  my  destiny,  however,  and  I hope 
Brass  may  like  it.  I shall  be  sorry  if 
he  don’t.  But  it ’s  no  business  of  mine, 
— I have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
it !” 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Mr.  Brass  on  returning  home  re- 
ceived the  report  of  his  clerk  with  much 
complacency  and  satisfaction,  and  was 
particular  in  inquiring  after  the  ten- 
pound  note,  which,  proving  on  examina- 
tion to  be  a good  and  lawful  note  of  the 
Governor  and  Company  of  the  Bank  of 
England,  increased  his  good-humor  con- 
siderably. Indeed  he  so  overflowed  with 
liberality  and  condescension,  that,  in 
the  fulness  of  his  heart,  he  invited  Mr. 
Swiveller  to  partake  of  a bowl  of  punch 
with  him  at  that  remote  and  indefinite 
period  which  is  currently  denominated 
“ one  of  these  days,”  and  paid  him 
many  handsome  compliments  on  the 
uncommon  aptitude  for  business  which 
Iris  conduct  on  the  first  day  of  his  devo- 
tion to  it  had  so  plainly  evinced. 

It  was  a maxim  with  Mr.  Brass  that 
the  habit  of  paying  compliments  kept  a 
man’s  tongue  oiled  without  any  ex- 
pense ; and,  as  that  useful  rpember 
ought  never  to  grow  rusty  or  creak  in 
turning  on  its  hinges  in  the  case  of  a 
practitioner  of  the  law,  in  whom  it 
should  be  always  glib  and  easy,  he  lost 
few  opportunities  of  improving  himself 
by  the  utterance  of  handsome  speeches 
and  eulogistic  expressions.  And  this 
had  passed  into  such  a habit  with  him, 
that,  if  he  could  not  be  correctly  said  to 
have  his  tongue  at  his  fingers’  ends,  he 
might  certainly  be  said  to  have  it  any- 
where but  in  his  face  ; which  being,  as 
we  have  already  seen,  of  a harsh  and 
repulsive  character,  was  not  oiled  so 
easily,  but  frowned  above  all  the  smooth 
speeches,  — one  of  .nature’s  beacons, 
warning  off  those  who  navigated  the 
shoals  and  breakers  of  the  World,  or 
of  that  dangerous  strait  the  Law,  and 
admonishing  them  to  seek  less  treach- 
erous harbors  and  try  their  fortune  else- 
where. 

While  Mr.  Brass  by  turns  over- 
whelmed his  clerk  with  compliments, 
and  inspected  the  ten-pound  note.  Miss 
Sally  showed  little  emotion  and  that  of 
no  pleasurable  kind,  for  as  the  tendency 
of  her  legal  practice  had  been  to  fix  her 
thoughts  on  small  gains  and  gripings, 
and  to  whet  and  sharpen  her  natural 
wisdom,  she  was  not  a little  disap- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


iS5 


pointed  that  the  single  gentleman  had 
obtained  the  lodgings  at  such  an  easy 
rate,  arguing  that  when  he  was  seen  to 
have  set  his  mind  upon  them,  he  should 
have  been  at  the  least  charged  double 
or  treble  the  usual  terms,  and  that,  in 
exact  proportion  as  he  pressed  forward, 
Mr.  Swiveller  should  have  hung  back. 
But  neither  the  good  opinion  of  Mr. 
Brass  nor  the  dissatisfaction  of  Miss 
Sally,  wrought  any  impression  upon 
that  young  gentleman,  who,  throwing 
the  responsibility  of  this  and  all  other 
acts  and  deeds  thereafter  to  be  done 
by  him  upon  his  unlucky  destiny,  was 
quite  resigned  and  comfortable,  fully 
prepared  for  the  worst,  and  philosophi- 
cally indifferent  to  the  best. 

“Good  morning,  Mr.  Richard,”  said 
Brass,  on  the  second  day  of  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller’s  clerkship.  “ Sally  found  you  a 
second -handstool,  sir,  yesterdayevening, 
in  Whitechapel.  She ’s  a rare  fellow  at 
a bargain,  I can  tell  you,  Mr.  Richard. 
You’ll  find  that  a first-rate  stool,  sir, 
take  my  word  for  it.” 

“ It ’s  rather  a crazy  one  to  look  at,” 
said  Dick. 

“You’ll  find  it  a most  amazing  stool 
to  sit  down  upon,  you  may  depend,” 
returned  Mr.  Brass.  “It  was  bought 
in  the  open  street  just  opposite  the 
hospital,  and  as  it  has  been  standing 
there  a month  or  two,  it  has  got  rather 
dusty  and  a little  brown  from  being  in 
the  sun,  that’s  all.” 

“ I hope  it  hasn’t  got  any  fevers  or 
anything  of  that  sort  in  it,”  said  Dick, 
sitting  himself  down  discontentedly 
between  Mr.  Sampson  and  th£  chaste 
Sally.  “ One  of  the  legs  is  longer  than 
the  others.” 

“ Then  we  get  a bit  of  timber  in,  sir,” 
retorted  Brass.  “ Ha,  ha,  ha ! We 
get  a bit  of  timber  in,  sir,  and  that’s 
another  advantage  of  my  sister’s  going 
to  market  for  us.  Miss  Brass,  Mr. 
Richard  is  the  — ” 

“Will  you  keep  quiet?”  interrupted 
the  fair  subject  of  these  remarks,  look- 
ing up  from  her  papers.  “ How  am  I 
to  work  if  you  keep  on  chattering?  ” 

“ What  an  uncertain  chap  you  are  !” 
returned  the  lawyer.  “ Sometimes 
you  ’re  all  for  a chat.  At  another  time 
you’re  all  for  work.  A man  never 


knows  what  humor  he  ’ll  find  you 
in.” 

“ I’m  in  a working  humor  now,” 
said  Miss  Sally,  “so  don’t  disturb  me, 
if  you  please.  And  don’t  take  him,” 
Miss  Sally  pointed  with  the  feather 
of  her  pen  to*  Richard,  “off  his  busi- 
ness. He  won’t  do  more  than  he  can 
help,  I dare  saj\” 

Mr.  Brass  had  evidently  a strong  in- 
clination to  make  an  angry  reply,  but 
was  deterred  by  prudent  or  timid  con- 
siderations, as  he  only  muttered  some- 
thing about  aggravation  and  a vaga- 
bond ; not  associating  the  terms  with 
any  individual,  but  mentioning  them 
as  connected  with  some  abstract  ideas 
which  happened  to  occur  to  him.  They 
went  on  writing  for  a long  time  in 
silence  after  this,  — in  such  a dull  si- 
lence that  Mr.  Swiveller  (who  required 
excitement)  had  several  times  fallen 
asleep,  and  written  divers  strange  words 
in  an  unknown  character  with  his  eyes 
shut,  when  Miss  Sally  at  length  broke 
in  upon  the  monotony  of  the  office  by 
pulling  out  the  little  tin  box,  taking  a 
noisy  pinch  of  snuff,  and  then  express- 
ing her  opinion  that  Mr.  Richard  Swiv- 
eller had  “ done  it.” 

“ Done  what,  ma’am  ? ” said  Richard. 

“ Do  you  know,”  returned  Miss  Brass, 
“that  the  lodger  isn’t  up  yet,  — that 
nothing  has  been  seen  or  heard  of  him 
since  he  went  to  bed  yesterday  after- 
noon ? ” 

“ Well,  ma’am,”  said  Dick,  “ I sup- 
pose he  may  sleep  his  ten  pound  out,  in 
peace  and  quietness,  if  he  likes.” 

“ Ah  ! I begin  to  think  he  ’ll  never 
wake,”  observed  Miss  Sally. 

“ It ’s  a very  remarkable  circum- 
stance,” said  Brass,  laying  down  his 
pen  ; “ really,  very  remarkable.  Mr. 
Richard,  you  ’ll  remember,  if  this  gen- 
tleman should  be  found  to  have  hung 
himself  to  the  bed-post,  or  any  unpleas- 
ant accident  of  that  kind  should  happen, 
— you  ’ll  remember,  Mr.  Richard,  that 
this  ten-pound  note  was  given  to  you  in 
part  payment  of  two  years’  rent  ? You  ’ll 
bear  that  in  mind,  Mr.  Richard.  You 
had  better  make  a note  of  it,  sir,  in  case 
you  should  ever  be  called  upon  to  give 
evidence.’’ 

Mr.  Swiveller  took  a large  sheet  of 


156 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


foolscap,  and,  with  a countenance  of 
profound  gravity,  began  to  make  a very 
small  note  in  one  corner. 

“ We  can  never  be  too  cautious,”  said 
Mr.  Brass.  “ There  is  a deal  of  wicked- 
ness going  about  the  world,  — a deal  of 
wickedness.  Did  the  gentleman  hap- 
pen to  say,  sir,  — but  never  mind  that 
at  present,  sir  ; finish  that  little  memo- 
randum first.” 

Dick  did  so,  and  handed  it  to  Mr. 
Brass,  who  had  dismounted  from  his 
stool,  and  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  office. 

“ O,  this  is  the  memorandum,  is  it?  ” 
said  Brass,  running  his  eye  over  the 
document.  ‘‘Very  good.  Now,  Mr. 
Richard,  did  the  gentleman  say  any- 
thing else  ? ” 

“ No.” 

“Are  you  sure,  Mr.  Richard,”  said 
Brass,  solemnly,  “that  the  gentleman 
said  nothing  else  ?” 

“Devil  a word,  sir,”  replied  Dick. 

“ Think  again,  sir,”  said  Brass  ; “ it ’s 
my  duty,  sir,  in  the  position  in  which  I 
stand,  and  as  an  honorable  member  of 
the  legal  profession,  — the  first  profes- 
sion in  this  country,  sir,  or  in  any  other 
country,  or  in  any  of  the  planets  that 
shine  above  us  at  night  and  are  sup- 
posed to  be  inhabited,  — it ’s  my  duty, 
sir,  as  an  honorable  member  of  that  pro- 
fession, not  to  put  to  you  a leading 
question  in  a matter  of  this  delicacy  and 
importance.  Did  the  gentleman,  sir, 
w'ho  took  the  first  floor  of  you  yesterday 
afternoon,  and  who  brought  with  him  a 
box  of  property,  — a box  of  property,  — 
say  anything  more  than  is  set  down  in 
this  memorandum  ? ” 

“ Come,  don’t  be  a fool,”  said  Miss 
Sally. 

Dick  looked  at  her,  and  then  at  Brass, 
and  then  at  Miss  Sally  again,  and  still 
said  “ No.” 

“ Pooh,  pooh  ! Deuce  take  it,  Mr. 
Richard,  how  dull  you  are  ! ” cried 
Brass,  relaxing  into  a smile.  “ Did  he 
say  anything  about  his  property?  — 
there  ! ” 

“ That ’s  the  way  to  put  it,”  said  Miss 
Sally,  nodding  to  her  brother. 

“Did  he  say,  for  instance,”  added 
Brass,  in  a kind  of  comfortable,  cosey 
tone,  — “ I don’t  assert  that  he  did  say 


so,  mind  ; I only  ask  you  to  refresh 
your  memory,  — did  he  say,  for  in- 
stance, that  he  wras  a stranger  in  Lon- 
don, — that  it  was  not  his  humor  or 
within  his  ability  to  give  any  references, 
— that  he  felt  we  had  a right  to  re- 
quire them,  — and  that,  in  case  any- 
thing should  happen  to  him,  at  any 
time,  he  particularly  desired  that  what- 
ever property  he  had  upon  the  premises 
should  be  considered  mine,  as  some 
slight  recompense  for  the  trouble  and 
annoyance  I should  sustain,  — and  were 
you,  in  short,”  added  Brass,  still  more 
comfortably  and  cosily  than  before,  — 
“ were  you  induced  to  accept  him  on 
my  behalf,  as  a tenant,  upon  those  con- 
ditions ? ” 

“ Certainly  not,”  replied  Dick. 

“ Why,  then,  Mr.  Richard,”  said 
Brass,  darting  at  him  a supercilious  and 
reproachful  look,  “ it ’s  my  opinion  that 
you ’ve  mistaken  your  calling,  and  will 
never  make  a lawyer.” 

“ Not  if  you  live  a thousand  years,” 
added  Miss  Sally.  Whereupon  the 
brother  and  sister  took  each  a noisy 
pinch  of  snuff  from  the  little  tin  box, 
and  fell  into  a gloomy  thoughtfulness. 

Nothing  further  passed,  up  to  Mr. 
Swiveller’s  dinner-time,  which  w?as  at 
three  o’clock,  and  seemed  about  three 
weeks  in  coming.  At  the  first  stroke  of 
the  hour,  the  new  clerk  disappeared. 
At  the  last  stroke  of  five  he  reappeared, 
and  the  office,  as  if  by  magic,  became 
fragrant  with  the  smell  of  gin  and  w'ater 
and  lemon-peel. 

“Mr.  Richard,”  said  Brass,  “this 
man ’s  not  up  yet.  Nothing  wTll  wake 
him,  sir.  What’s  to  be  done?” 

“ I should  let  him  have  his  sleep 
out,”  returned  Dick. 

“ Sleep  out ! ” cried  Brass.  “ Why, 
he  has  been  asleep  now  six-and-twenty 
hours.  We  have  been  moving  chests 
of  drawers  over  his  head,  we  have 
knocked  double  knocks  at  the  street 
door,  wre  have  made  the  servant-girl 
fall  dow'n  stairs  several  times,  (she ’s  a 
light  weight,  and  it  don’t  hurt  her 
much,)  but  nothing  w'akes  him.” 

“ Perhaps  a ladder,”  suggested  Dick, 
“ and  getting  in  at  the  first-floor  win- 
dow— ” 

“ But  then  there ’s  a door  between ; 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


157 


besides,  the  neighborhood  would  be  up 
in  arms,”  said  Brass. 

“ What  do  you  say  to  getting  on  the 
roof  of  the  house  through  the  trap-door, 
and  dropping  down  the  chimney  ? ” sug- 
gested Dick. 

“ That  would  be  an  excellent  plan,” 
said  Brass,  “ if  anybody  would  be,”  — 
and  here  he  looked  very  hard  at  Mr. 
Swiveller, — “would  be  kind  and  friend- 
ly and  generous  enough  to  undertake 
it.  I dare  say  it  would  not  be  anything 
like  as  disagreeable  as  one  supposes.” 

Dick  had  made  the  suggestion,  think- 
ing that  the  duty  might  possibly  fall 
within  Miss  Sally’s  department.  As  he 
said  nothing  further,  and  declined  tak- 
ing the  hint,  Mr.  Brass  was  fain  to  pro- 
pose that  they  should  go  up  stairs  to- 
gether, and  made  a last  effort  to  awaken 
the  sleeper  by  some  less  violent  means, 
which,  if  they  failed  on  this  last  trial, 
must  positively  be  succeeded  by  strong- 
er measures.  Mr.  Swiveller,  assenting, 
armed  himself  with  his  stool  and  the 
large  ruler,  and  repaired  with  his  em- 
ployer to  the  scene  of  action,  where 
Miss  Brass  was  already  ringing  a hand- 
bell with  all  her  might,  and  yet  without 
producing  the  smallest  effect  upon  their 
mysterious  lodger. 

“ There  are  his  boots,  Mr.  Richard!” 
said  Brass. 

“ Very  obstinate-looking  articles  they 
are  too,”  quoth  Richard  Swiveller. 
And  truly  they  were  as  sturdy  and  bluff  a 
pair  of  boots  as  one  would  wish  to  see  ; 
as  firmly  planted  on  the  ground  as  if 
their  owner’s  legs  and  feet  had  been  in 
them ; and  seeming,  with  their  broad 
soles  and  blunt  toes,  to  hold  possession 
of  their  place  by  main  force. 

“ I can’t  see  anything  but  the  cur- 
tain of  the  bed,”  said  Brass,  applying 
his  eye  to  the  keyhole  of  the  door.  “ Is 
he  a strong  man,  Mr.  Richard  ? ” 

“ Very,”  answered  Dick. 

“ It  would  be  an  extremely  unpleas- 
ant circumstance  if  he  was  to  bounce 
out  suddenly,”  said  Brass.  “ Keep  the 
stairs  clear.  I should  be  more  than  a 
match  for  him,  of  course,  but  I ’m  the 
master  of  the  house,  and  the  laws  of 
hospitality  must  be  respected.  — Hallo 
there  ! Hallo,  hallo  ! ” 

While  Mr.  Brass,  with  his  eye  curi- 


ously twisted  into  the  keyhole,  uttered 
these  sounds  as  a means  of  attracting 
the  lodger’s  attention,  and  while  Miss 
Brass  plied  the  hand-bell,  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler put  his  stool  close  against  the  wall 
by  the  side  of  the  door,  and  mounting 
on  the  top  and  standing  bolt  upright,  so 
that  if  the  lodger  did  make  a rush,  he 
would  most  probably  pass  him  in  its  on- 
ward fury,  began  aviolentbattery  with  the 
ruler  upon  the  upper  panels  of  the  door. 
Captivated  with  his  own  ingenuity,  and 
confident  in  the  strength  of  his  position, 
which  he  had  taken  up  after  the  method 
of  those  hardy  individuals  who  open 
the  pit  and  gallery  doors  of  theatres 
on  crowded  nights,  Mr.  Swiveller  rained 
down  such  a shower  of  blows  that  the 
noise  of  the  bell  was  drowned  ; and  the 
small  servant,  who  lingered  on  the  stairs 
below,  ready  to  fly  at  a moment’s  notice, 
was  obliged  to  hold  her  ears  lest  she 
should  be  rendered  deaf  for  life. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  unlocked  on 
the  inside,  and  flung  violently  open. 
The  small  servant  fled  to  the  coal-cel- 
lar ; Miss  Sally  dived  into  her  own  bed-> 
room  ; Mr.  Brass,  who  was  not  remark- 
able for  personal  courage,  ran  into  the 
next  street,  and,  finding  that  nobody  fol- 
lowed him,  armed  with  a poker  or  other 
offensive  weapon,  put  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  walked  very  slowly  all  at  once, 
and  whistled. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Swiveller,  on  the  top 
of  the  stool,  drew  himself  into  as  flat  a 
shape  as  possible  against  the  wall,  and 
looked,  not  unconcernedly,  down  upon 
the  single  gentleman,  who  appeared  at 
the  door  growling  and  cursing  in  a very 
awful  manner,  and  with  the  boots  in 
his  hand,  seemed  to  have  an  intention 
of  hurling  them  down  stairs  on  specu- 
lation. This  idea,  however,  he  aban- 
doned. He  was  turning  into  his  room 
again,  still  growling  vengefully,  when 
his  eyes  met  those  of  the  watchful  Rich- 
ard. 

“ Have  you  been  making  that  horrible 
noise?”  said  the  single  gentleman. 

“ I have  been  helping,  sir,”  returned 
Dick,  keeping  his  eye  upon  him,  and 
waving  the  ruler  gently  in  his  right 
hand,  as  an  indication  of  what  the  sin- 
gle gentleman  had  to  expect  if  he  at- 
tempted any  violence. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


158 


“ How  dare  you,  then  ? ” said  the  lodg- 
er. “Eh?” 

To  this  Dick  made  no  other  reply 
than  by  inquiring  whether  the  lodger 
held  it  to  be  consistent  with  the  conduct 
and  character  of  a gentleman  to  go  to 
sleep  for  six-and-twenty  hours  at  a 
stretch,  and  whether  the  peace  of  an 
amiable  and  virtuous  family  was  to 
weigh  as  nothing  in  the  balance. 

“Is  my  peace  nothing ? ” said  the 
single  gentleman. 

“Is  their  peace  nothing,  sir?”  re- 
turned Dick.  “ I don’t  wish  to  hold 
out  any  threats,  sir,  — indeed  the  law 
does  not  allow  of  threats,  for  to  threaten 
is  an  indictable  offence,  — but  if  ever 
you  do  that  again,  take  care  you  ’re  not 
sat  upon  by  the  coroner  and  buried  in  a 
cross-road  before  you  wake.  We  have 
been  distracted  with  fears  that  you  were 
dead,  sir,”  said  Dick,  gently  sliding  to 
the  ground ; “ and  the  short  and  the  long 
of  it  is,  that  we  cannot  allow  single  gen- 
tlemen to  come  into  this  establishment 
and  sleep  like  double  gentlemen  without 
paying  extra  for  it.” 

“ Indeed  ! ” cried  the  lodger. 

“Yes,  sir,  indeed,”  returned  Dick, 
yielding  to  his  destiny  and  saying  what- 
ever came  uppermost ; “an  equal  quan- 
tity of  slumber  was  never  got  out  of  one 
bed  and  bedstead,  and  if  you  ’re  going 
to  sleep  in  that  way,  you  must  pay  for  a 
double-bedded  room.” 

Instead  of  being  thrown  into  a greater 
passion  by  these  remarks,  the  lodger 
lapsed  into  a broad  grin,  and  looked  at 
Mr.  Swiveller  with  twinkling  eyes.  He 
was  a brown-faced,  sun-burnt  man,  and 
appeared  browner  and  more  sunburnt 
from  having  a white  nightcap  on.  As 
it  was  clear  that  he  was  a choleric  fel- 
low in  some  respects,  Mr.  Swiveller  was 
relieved  to  find  him  in  such  good-hu- 
mor, and,  to  encourage  him  in  it,  smiled 
himself 

The  lodger,  in  the  testiness  of  being 
so  rudely  roused,  had  pushed  his  night- 
cap very  much  on  one  side  of  his  bald 
head.  This  gave  him  a rakish,  eccentric 
air,  which,  now  that  he  had  leisure  to 
observe  it,  charmed  Mr.  Swiveller  ex- 
ceedingly ; therefore,  by  way  of  propi- 
tiation, he  expressed  his  hope  that  the 
gentleman  was  going  to  get  up,  and, 


further,  that  he  would  never  do  so  any 
more. 

“ Come  here,  you  impudent  rascal  ! ” 
was  the  lodger’s  answer  as  he  re-entered 
his  room. 

Mr.  Swiveller  followed  him  in,  leav- 
ing the  stool  outside,  but  reserving  the 
ruler  in  case  of  a surprise.  He  rather 
congratulated  himself  on  his  prudence, 
when  the  single  gentleman,  without 
notice  or  explanation  of  any  kind, 
double-locked  the  door. 

“ Can  you  drink  anything?  ” was  his 
next  inquiry. 

Mr.  Swiveller  replied  that  he  had 
very  recently  been  assuaging  the  pangs 
of  thirst,  but  that  he  was  still  open  to 
“a  modest  quencher,”  if  the  materials 
were  at  hand.  Without  another  word 
spoken  on  either  side,  the  lodger  took 
from  his  great  trunk  a kind  of  temple, 
shining  as  of  polished  silver,  and  placed 
it  carefully  on  the  table. 

Greatly  interested  in  his  proceedings,' 
Mr.  Swiveller  observed  him  closely. 
Into  one  little  chamber  of  this  temple 
he  dropped  an  egg ; into  another,  some 
coffee  ; into  a third,  a compact  piece  of 
raw  steak  from  a neat  tin  case  ; into  a 
fourth  he  poured  some  water.  Then, 
with  the  aid  of  a phosphorus-box  and 
some  matches,  he  procured  a light  and 
applied  it  to  a spirit-lamp  which  had  a 
place  of  its  own  below  the  temple  ; then 
he  shut  down  the  lids  of  all  the  little 
chambers ; then  he  opened  them  ; and 
then,  by  some  wonderful  and  unseen 
agency,  the  steak  was  done,  the  egg  was 
boiled,  the  coffee  was  accurately  pre- 
pared, and  his  breakfast  was  ready. 

“ Hot  water,”  said  the  lodger,  hand- 
ing it  to  Mr.  Swiveller,  with  as  much 
coolness  as  if  he  had  a kitchen  fire 
before  him,  “ extraordinary  rum,  sugar, 
and  a travelling-glass.  Mix  for  your- 
self. And  make  haste.” 

Dick  complied,  his  eyes  wandering  all 
the  time  from  the  temple  on  the  table, 
which  seemed  to  do  everything,  to  the 
great  trunk,  which  seemed  to  hold  every- 
thing. The  lodger  took  his  breakfast 
like  a man  who  was  used  to  work  these 
miracles,  and  thought  nothing  of  them. 

“ The  man  of  the  house  is  a lawyer, 
is  he  not  ? ” said  the  lodger. 

Dick  nodded.  The  rum  was  amazing. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


i59 


“ The  woman  of  the  house,  — what ’s 
she?” 

“A  dragon,”  said  Dick. 

The  single  gentleman,  perhaps  be- 
cause he  had  met  with  such  things  in 
his  travels,  or  perhaps  because  he  was 
a single  gentleman,  evinced  no  surprise, 
but  merely  inquired,  “Wife  or  sister?” 
“Sister,”  said  Dick.  “So  much  the 
better,”  said  the  single  gentleman,  “he 
can  get  rid  of  her  when  he  likes.” 

“ I want  to  do  as  I like,  young  man,” 
he  added,  after  a short  silence:  “logo 
to  bed  when  I like,  get  up  when  I like, 
come  in  when  I like,  go  out  when  I 
like,  — to  be  asked  no  questions,  and 
be  surrounded  by  no  spies.  In  this  last 
respect,  servants  are  the  devil.  There ’s 
only  one  here.” 

“And  a very  little  one,”  said  Dick. 
“And  a very  little  one,”  repeated  the 
lodger.  “Well,  the  place  will  suit  me, 
will  it?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  Dick. 

“ Sharks,  I suppose  ? ” said  the 
lodger. 

Dick  nodded  assent,  and  drained  his 
glass. 

“ Let  them  know  my  humor,”  said 
the  single  gentleman,  rising.  “ If  they 
disturb  me,  they  lose  a good  tenant. 
If  they  know  me  to  be  that,  they  know 
enough.  If  they  try  to  know  more,  it ’s 
a notice  to  quit.  It ’s  better  to  under- 
stand these  things  at  once.  Good  day.” 
“ I beg  your  pardon,”  said  Dick, 
halting  in  his  passage  to  the  door, 
which  the  lodger  prepared  to  open. 
“When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left 
but  the  name  — ” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“ — But  the  name,”  said  Dick, — 
“has  left  but  the  name, — in  case  of 
letters  or  parcels  — ” 

“I  never  have  any,”  returned  the 
lodger. 

“ Or  in  case  anybody  should  call.” 

“ Nobody  ever  calls  on  me.” 

“If  any  mistake  should  arise  from 
not  having  the  name,  don’t  say  it  was 
rriy  fault,  sir,”  added  Dick,  still  linger- 
ing. — “ O blame  not  the  bard  — ” 

“ I ’ll  blame  nobody,”  said  the  lodger, 
with  such  irascibility  that  in  a moment 
Dick  found  himself  on  the  staircase, 
and  the  locked  door  between  them. 


Mr.  Brass  and  Miss  Sally  were  lurk- 
ing hard  by,  having  been,  indeed,  only 
routed  from  the  keyhole  by  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller’s  abrupt  exit.  As  their  utmost 
exertions  had  not  enabled  them  to  over- 
hear a word  of  the  interview,  however, 
in  consequence  of  a quarrel  for  prece- 
dence, which,  though  limited  of  neces- 
sity to  pushes  and  pinches  and  such 
quiet  pantomime,  had  lasted  the  whole 
time,  they  hurried  him  down  to  the 
office  to  hear  his  account  of  the  conver- 
sation. 

This  Mr.  Swiveller  gave  them,  — 
faithfully  as  regarded  the  wishes  and 
character  of  the  single  gentleman,  and 
poetically  as  concerned  the  great  trunk, 
of  which  he  gave  a description  more  re- 
markable for  brilliancy  of  imagination 
than  a strict  adherence  to  truth  ; declar- 
ing, with  many  strong  asseverations, 
that  it  contained  a specimen  of  every 
kind  of  rich  food  and  wine  known  in 
these  times,  and  in  particular  that  it 
was  of  a self-acting  kind,  and  served  up 
whatever  was  required,  as  he  supposed, 
by  clock-work.  He  also  gave  them  to 
understand  that  the  cooking  apparatus 
roasted  a fine  piece  of  sirloin  of  beef, 
weighing  about  six  pounds  avoirdu- 
pois, in  two  minutes  and  a quarter,  as 
he  had  himself  witnessed,  and  proved 
by  his  sense  of  taste;  and  further,  that, 
however  the  effect  was  produced,  he 
had  distinctly  seen  water  boil  and  bub- 
ble up  when  the.  single  gentleman 
winked ; from  which  facts  he  (Mr. 
Swiveller)  was  led  to  infer  that  the 
lodger  was  some  great  conjurer  or 
chemist,  or  both,  whose  residence  un- 
der that  roof  could  not  fail  at  some 
future  day  to  shed  a great  credit  and 
distinction  on  the  name  of  Brass,  and 
add  a new  interest  to  the  history  of 
Bevis  Marks. 

There  was  one  point  which  Mr. 
Swiveller  deemed  it  unnecessary  to  en- 
large upon,  and  that  was  the  fact  of  the 
modest  quencher,  which,  by  reason  of 
its  intrinsic  strength,  and  its  coming 
close  upon  the  heels  of  the  temperate 
beverage  he  had  discussed  at  dinner, 
awakened  a slight  degree  of  fever,  and 
rendered  necessary  two  or  three  other 
modest  quenchers  at  the  public-house, 
in  the  course  of  the  evening. 


i6o 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

As  the  single  gentleman,  after  some 
weeks’  occupation  of  his  lodgings,  still 
declined  to  correspond,  by  word  or  ges- 
ture, either  with  Mr.  Brass  or  his  sis- 
ter Sally,  but  invariably  chose  Richard 
Swiveller  as  his  channel  of  communi- 
cation, and  as  he  proved  himself  in 
all  respects  a highly  desirable  inmate, 
paying  for  everything  beforehand,  giv- 
ing very  little  trouble,  making  no  noise, 
and  keeping  early  hours,  Mr.  Richard 
imperceptibly  rose  to  an  important  po- 
sition in  the  family,  as  one  who  had  in- 
fluence over  this  mysterious  lodger,  and 
could  negotiate  with  him,  for  good  or 
evil,  when  nobody  else  durst  approach 
his  person. 

If  the  truth  must  be  told,  even  Mr. 
Swiveller’s  approaches  to  the  single 
gentleman  were  of  a very  distant  kind, 
and  met  with  small  encouragement  ; 
but,  as  he  never  returned  from  a mono- 
syllabic conference  with  the  unknown, 
without  quoting  such  expressions  as 
“ Swiveller,  I know  I can  rely  upon 
you,”  “ 1 have  no  hesitation  in  say- 
ing, Swiveller,  that  I entertain  a regard 
for  you,”  “ Swiveller,  you  are  my 
friend,  and  will  stand  by  me  I am 
sure,”  with  many  other  short  speeches 
of  the  same  familiar  and  confiding  kind, 
purporting  to  have  been  addressed  by 
the  single  gentleman  to  himself,  and  to 
form  the  staple  of  their  ordinary  dis- 
course, neither  Mr.  Brass  nor  Miss 
Sally  for  a moment  questioned  the  ex- 
tent of  his  influence,  but  accorded  to 
him  their  fullest  and  most  unqualified 
belief. 

But  quite  apart  from,  and  indepen- 
dent of,  this  source  of  popularity,  Mr. 
Swiveller  had  another,  which  promised 
to  be  equally  enduring,  and  to  lighten 
his  position  considerably. 

He  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  Miss 
Sally  Brass.  Let  not  the  light  scorners 
of  female  fascination  erect  their  ears  to 
listen  to  a new  tale  of  love  which  shall 
serve  them  for  a jest ; for  Miss  Brass, 
however  accurately  formed  to  be  be- 
loved, was  not  of  the  loving  kind. 
That  amiable  virgin,  having  clung  to 
the  skirts  of  the  Law  from  her  earliest 
youth,  having  sustained  herself  by 


their  aid,  as  it  were,  in  her  first  running 
alone,  and  maintained  a firm  grasp 
upon  them  ever  since,  had  passed  her 
life  in  a kind  of  legal  childhood.  She 
had  been  remarkable,  when  a tender 
prattler,  for  an  uncommon  talent  in 
counterfeiting  the  walk  and  manner  of 
a bailiff : in  which  character  she  had 
learned  to  tap  her  little  playfellows  on 
the  shoulder,  and  to  carry  them  off  to 
imaginary  sponging-houses,  with  a cor- 
rectness of  imitation  which  was  the 
surprise  and  delight  of  all  who  wit- 
nessed her  performances,  and  which 
was  only  to  be  exceeded  by  her  exqui- 
site manner  of  putting  an  execution  in- 
to her  doll’s  house,  and  taking  an  exact 
inventory  of  the  chairs  and  tables. 
These  artless  sports  had  naturally 
soothed  and  cheered  the  decline  of  her 
widowed  father : a most  exemplary 

gentleman  (called  “old  Foxey”  by 
his  friends  from  his  extreme  sagacity), 
who  encouraged  them  to  the  utmost, 
and  whose  chief  regret  on  finding  that 
he  drew  near  to  Houndsditch  church- 
yard was,  that  his  daughter  could 
not  take  out  an  attorney’s  certificate 
and  hold  a place  upon  the  roll. 
Filled  with  this  affectionate  and  touch- 
ing sorrow,  he  had  solemnly  confided 
her  to  his  son  Sampson  as  an  inval- 
uable auxiliary  ; and  from  the  old 
gentleman’s  decease  to  the  period 
of  which  we  treat,  Miss  Sally  Brass 
had  been  the  prop  and  pillar  of  his 
business. 

It  is  obvious  that,  having  devoted 
herself  from  infancy  to  this  one  pursuit 
and  study,  Miss  Brass  could  know  but 
little  of  the  world,  otherwise  than  in 
connection  with  the  law  ; and  that  from 
a lady  gifted  with  such  high  tastes, 
proficiency  in  those  gentler  and  softer 
arts  in  which  women  usually  excel  was 
scarcely  to  be  looked  for.  Miss  Sally’s 
accomplishments  were  all  of  a mascu- 
line and  strictly  legal  kind.  They  be- 
gan with  the  practice  of  an  attorney 
and  they  ended  with  it.  She  was  in  a 
state  of  lawful  innocence,  so  to  speak, 
The  Law  had  been  her  nurse.  And,  as 
bandy-legs  or  such  physical  deformities 
in  children  are  held  to  be  the  conse- 
quence of  bad  nursing,  so,  if  in  a mind 
so  beautiful  any  moral  twist  or  bandi- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


161 


ness  could  be  found,  Miss  Sally  Brass’s 
nurse  was  alone  to  blame. 

It  was  on  this  lady,  then,  that  Mr. 
Swiveller  burst  in  full  freshness  as 
something  new  and  hitherto  undreamed 
of,  lighting  up  the  office  with  scraps  of 
song  and  merriment,  conjuring  with 
inkstands  and  boxes  of  wafers,  catching 
three  oranges  in  one  hand,  balancing 
stools  upon  his  chin  and  penknives  on 
his  nose,  and  constantly  performing  a 
hundred  other  feats  with  equal  ingenu- 
ity ; for  with  such  unbendings  did  Rich- 
ard, in  Mr.  Brass’s  absence,  relieve  the 
tedium  of  his  confinement.  These  so- 
cial qualities,  which  Miss  Sally  first 
discovered  by  accident,  gradually  made 
such  an  impression  upon  her,  that  she 
would  entreat  Mr.  Swiveller  to  relax  as 
though  she  were  not  by,  which  Mr. 
Swiveller,  nothing  loath,  would  read- 
ily consent  to  do.  By  these  means  a 
friendship  sprung  up  between  them. 
Mr.  Swiveller  gradually  came  to  look 
upon  her  as  her  brother  Sampson  did, 
and  as  he  would  have  looked  upon  any 
other  clerk.  He  imparted  to  her  the 
mystery  of  going  the  odd  man  or  plain 
Newmarket  for  fruit,  ginger-beer,  baked 
potatoes,  or  even  a modest  quencher, 
of  which  Miss  Brass  did  not  scruple  to 
partake.  He  would  often  persuade  her 
to  undertake  his  share  of  writing  in  ad- 
dition to  her  own  ; nay,  he  would  some- 
times reward  her  with  a hearty  slap  on 
the  back,  and  protest  that  she  was  a 
devilish  good  fellow,  a jolly  dog,  and  so 
forth;  all  of  which  compliments  Miss 
Sally  would  receive  in  entire  good  part 
and  with  perfect  satisfaction. 

One  circumstance  troubled  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller’s  mind  very  much,  and  that  was 
that  the  small  servant  always  remained 
somewhere  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth 
under  Bevis  Marks,  and  never  came  to 
the  surface  unless  the  single  gentleman 
rang  his  bell,  when  she  would  answer  it 
and  immediately  disappear  again.  She 
never  went  out,  or  came  into  the  office, 
or  had  a clean  face,  or  took  off  the 
coarse  apron,  or  looked  out  of  any  one 
of  the  windows,  or  stood  at  the  street 
door  for  a breath  of  air,  or  had  any  rest 
or  enjoyment  whatever.  Nobody  ever 
came  to  see  her,  nobody  spoke  of  her, 
nobody  cared  about  her.  Mr.  Brass 


had  said  once,  that  he  believed  she  was 
a “love-child,”  (which  means  anything 
but  a child  of  love,)  and  that  was  all 
the  information  Richard  Swiveller  could 
obtain. 

“ It’s  of  no  use  asking  the  dragon,” 
thought  Dick  one  day,  as  he  sat  con- 
templating the  features  of  Miss  Sally 
Brass.  “ I suspect  if  I asked  any  ques- 
tions on  that  head,  our  alliance  would 
be  at  an  end.  I wonder  whether  she  is 
a dragon,  by  the  by,  or  something  in  the 
mermaid  way.  She  has  rather  a scaly 
appearance.  But  mermaids  are  fond 
of  looking  at  themselves  in  the  glass, 
which  she  can’t  be.  And  they  have  a 
habit  of  combing  their  hair,  which  she 
has  n’t.  No,  she ’s  a dragon.” 

“Where  are  you  going,  old  fellow,” 
said  Dick  aloud,  as  Miss  Sally  wiped 
her  pen  as  usual  on  the  green  dress  and 
uprose  from  her  seat. 

“To  dinner,”  answered  the  dragon. 

“ To  dinner  ! ” thought  Dick,  “ that ’s 
another  circumstance.  I don’t  believe 
that  small  servant  ever  has  anything  to 
eat.” 

“ Sammy  won’t  be  home,”  said  Miss 
Brass.  “ Stop  till  I come  back.  I 
sha’n’t  be  long.” 

Dick  nodded,  and  followed  Miss 
Brass— with  his  eyes  to  the  door,  and 
with  his  ears  to  a little  back  parlor, 
where  she  and  her  brother  took  their 
meals. 

“ Now,”  said  Dick,  walking  up  and 
down  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
“ I ’d  give  something,  — if  I had  it,  — 
to  know  how  they  use  that  child,  and 
where  they  keep  her.  My  mother  must 
have  been  a very  inquisitive  woman  ; I 
have  no  doubt  I ’m  marked  with  a note 
of  interrogation  somewhere.  My  feel- 
ings I smother,  but  thou  hast  been  the 
cause  of  this  anguish  my  — upon  my 
word,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  checking 
himself  and  falling  thoughtfully  into  the 
client’s  chair,  “ I should  like  to  know 
how  they  use  her  ! ” 

After  running  on  in  this  way  for 
some  time,  Mr.  Swiveller  softly  opened 
the  office  door,  with  the  intention  of 
darting  across  the  street  for  a glass  of 
the  mild  porter.  At  that  moment  he 
caught  a parting  glimpse  of  the  brown 
head-dress  of  Miss  Brass  flitting  down 


n 


162 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


the  kitchen  stairs.  “ And  by  Jove  ! ” 
thought  Dick,  “ she ’s  going  to  feed  the 
Marchioness.  Now  or  never!” 

First  peeping  over  the  hand-rail  and 
allowing  the  head-dress  to  disappear  in 
the  darkness  below,  he  groped  his  way 
down,  and  arrived  at  the  door  of  a back 
kitchen  immediately  after  Miss  Brass 
had  entered  the  same,  bearing  in  her 
hand  a cold  leg  of  mutton.  It  was  a 
very  dark,  miserable  place,  very  low  and 
very  damp  ; the  walls  disfigured  by  a 
thousand  rents  and  blotches.  The  water 
was  trickling  out  of  a leaky  butt,  and  a 
most  wretched  cat  was  lapping  up  the 
drops  with  the  sickly  eagerness  of  star- 
vation. The  grate,  which  was  a wide  one, 
was  wound  and  screwed  up  tight,  so  as 
to  hold  no  more  than  a little  thin  sand- 
wich of  fire.  Everything  was  locked 
up  ; the  coal-cellar,  the  candle-box,  the 
salt-box,  the  meat-safe,  were  all  pad- 
locked. There  was  nothing  that  a bee- 
tle could  have  lunched  upon.  The 
pinched  and  meagre  aspect  of  the  place 
would  have  killed  a chameleon : he 
would  have  known,  at  the  first  mouth- 
ful, that  the  air  was  not  eatable,  and 
must  have  given  up  the  ghost  in  de- 
spair. 

The  small  servant  stood  with  humil- 
ity in  presence  of  Miss  Sally,  and  hung 
her  head. 

“Are  you  there?  ” said  Miss  Sally. 

“Yes,  ma’am,”  was  the  answer  m a 
weak  voice. 

“ Go  farther  away  from  the  leg  of 
mutton,  or  you’ll  be  picking  it,  I know,” 
said  Miss  Sally. 

The  girl  withdrew  into  a corner, 
while  Miss  Brass  took  a key  from  her 
pocket,  and  opening  the  safe,  brought 
from  it  a dreary  waste  of  cold  potatoes, 
looking  as  eatable  as  Stonehenge. 
This  she  placed  before  the  small  ser- 
vant, ordering  her  to  sit  down  before  it, 
and  then,  taking  up  a great  carving- 
knife,  made  a mighty  show  of  sharpen- 
ing it  upon  the  carving-fork. 

“ Do  you  see  this  ?”  said  Miss  Brass, 
slicing  off  about  two  square  inches  of 
cold  mutton,  after  all  this  preparation, 
and  holding  it  put  on  the  point  pf  the 
fork. 

The  small  servant  looked  hard  enough 
at  i$  with  her  hungry  eyes  to  see  every 


shred  of  it,  small  as  it  was,  and  an- 
swered, “Yes.” 

“Then  don’t  you  ever  go  and  say,” 
retorted  Miss  Sally,  “that  you  hadn’t 
meat  here.  There,  eat  it  up.” 

This  was  soon  done.  “ Now,  do  you 
want  any  more  ? ” said  Miss  Sally. 

The  hungry  creature  answered  with 
a faint  “No.”  They  were  evidently 
going  through  an  established  form. 

“ You ’ve  befen  helped  once  to  meat,” 
said  Miss  Brass,  summing  up  the  facts; 
“you  have  had  as  much  as  you  can  eat, 
you  ’re  asked  if  you  want  any  more,  and 
you  answer,  ‘No!’  Then  don’t  you 
ever  go  and  say  you  were  allowanced, 
mind  that.” 

With  those  words,  Miss  Sally  put  the 
meat  away  and  locked  the  safe,  and 
then  drawing  near  to  the  small  servant, 
overlooked  her  while  she  finished  the 
potatoes. 

It  was  plain  that  some  extraordinary 
grudge  was  working  in  Miss  Brass’s 
gentle  breast,  and  that  it  was  this  which 
impelled  her,  without  the  smallest 
present  cause,  to  rap  the  child  with  the 
blade  of  the  knife,  now  on  her  hand, 
now  on  her  head,  and  now  on  her  back, 
as  if  she  found  it  quite  impossible  to 
stand  so  close  to  her  without  adminis- 
tering a few  slight  knocks.  But  Mr. 
Swiveller  was  not  a little  surprised  to 
see  his  fellow-clerk,  after  walking  slow- 
ly backwards  towards  the  door,  as  if  she 
were  trying  to  withdraw  herself  from 
the  room,  but  could  not  accomplish  it, 
dart  suddenly  forward,  and  falling  oil 
the  small  servant,  give  her  some  hard 
blows  with  her  clenched  hand.  The  vic- 
tim cried,  but  in  a subdued  manner  as  if 
she  feared  to  raise  her  voice ; and  Miss 
Sally,  comforting  herself  with  a pinch 
of  snuff,  ascended  the  stairs,  just  as 
Richard  had  safely  reached  the  office. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

The  single  gentleman,  among  his 
other  peculiarities,  — and  he  had  a very 
plentiful  stock,  of  which  he  every  day 
furnished  some  new  specimen,  — took 
a most  extraordinapr  and  remarkable 
ipterest  in  the  exhibition  of  Punch.  If 


WE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

university  gf  aiiMois 


THE  SINGLE  GENTLExMAN. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


163 


the  sound  of  a Punch’s  voice,  at  ever 
so  remote  a distance,  reached  Bevis 
Marks,  the  single  gentleman,  though  in 
bed  and  asleep,  would  start  up,  and, 
hurrying  on  his  clothes,  make  for  the 
spot  with  all  speed,  and  presently  return 
at  the  head  of  a long  procession  of  idlers, 
having  in  the  midst  the  theatre  and 
its  proprietors.  Straightway,  the  stage 
would  be  set  up  in  front  of  Mr.  Brass’s 
house ; the  single  gentleman  would 
establish  himself  at  the  first  floor  win- 
dow ; and  the  entertainment  would  pro- 
ceed, with  all  its  exciting  accompani- 
ments of  fife  and  drum  and  shout,  to  the 
excessive  consternation  of  all  sober  vota- 
ries of  business  in  that  silent  thorough- 
fare. It  might  have  been  expected  that 
when  the  play  was  done,  both  players 
and  audience  would  have  dispersed  ; but 
the  epilogue  was  as  bad  as  the  play,  for 
no  sooner  was  the  Devil  dead,  than  the 
manager  of  the  puppets  and  his  partner 
were  summoned  by  the  single  gentle- 
man to  his  chamber,  where  they  were 
regaled  with  strong  waters  from  his 
private  store,  and  where  they  held  with 
him  long  conversations,  the  purport  of 
which  no  human  being  could  fathom. 
But  the  secret  of  these  discussions  was 
of  little  importance.  It  was  sufficient 
to  know,  that  while  they  were  proceed- 
ing the  concourse  without  still  lingered 
round  the  house;  that  boys  beat  upon 
the  drum  with  their  fists,  and  imitated 
Punch  with  their  tender  voices ; that 
the  office  window  was  rendered  opaque 
by  flattened  noses  ; and  the  keyhole  of 
the  street  door  luminous  with  eyes ; 
that  every  time  the  single  gentleman  or 
either  of  his  guests  was  seen  at  the 
upper  window,  or  so  much  as  the  end 
of  one  of  their  noses  was  visible,  there 
was  a great  shout  of  execration  from  the 
excluded  mob,  who  remained  howling 
and  yelling,  and  refusing  consolation, 
until  the  exhibitors  were  delivered  up 
to  them  to  be  attended  elsewhere.  It 
was . sufficient,  in  short,  to  know  that 
Bevis  Marks  was  revolutionized  by 
these  popular  movements,  and  that 
peace  and  quietness  fled  from  its  pre- 
cincts. 

Nobody  was  rendered  more  indignant 
by  these  proceedings  than  Mr.  Samp- 
son Brass,  who,  as  he  could  by  no 


means  afford  to  lose  so  profitable  an 
inmate,  deemed  it  prudent  to  pocket 
his  lodger’s  affront  along  with  his  cash, 
and  to  annoy  the  audiences  who  clus- 
tered round  his  door  by  such  imperfect 
means  of  retaliation  as  were  open  to 
him,  and  which  were  confined  to  the 
trickling  down  of  foul  water  on  their 
heads  from  unseen  watering-pots,  pelt- 
ing them  with  fragments  of  tile  and 
mortar  from  the  roof  of  the  house,  and 
bribing  the  drivers  of  hackney  cabriolets 
to  come  suddenly  round  the  corner  and 
dash  in  among  them  precipitately.  It 
may,  at  first  sight,  be  matter  of  surprise 
to  the  thoughtless  few  that  Mr.  Brass, 
being  a professional  gentleman,  should 
not  have  legally  indicted  some  party  or 
parties,  active  in  the  promotion  of  the 
nuisance  ; but  they  will  be  good  enough 
to  remember,  that  as  doctors  seldom 
take  their  own  prescriptions,  and  di- 
vines do  not  always  practise  what  they 
preach,  so  lawyers  are  shy  of  meddling 
with  the  law  on  their  own  account ; 
knowing  it  to  be  an  edged  tool  of  uncer- 
tain application,  very  expensive  in  the 
working,  and  rather  remarkable  for  its 
properties  of  close  shaving  than  for  its 
always  shaving  the  right  person. 

“ Come,”  said  Mr.  Brass  one  after- 
noon, “this  is  two  days  without  a Punch. 
I ’m  in  hopes  he  has  run  through  ’em 
all,  at  last.” 

“Why  are  you  in  hopes?”  returned 
Miss  Sally.  “ What  harm  do  they 
do  ? ” 

“ Here ’s  a pretty  sort  of  a fellow  ! ” 
cried  Brass,  laying  down  his  pen  in 
despair.  “Now  here ’s  an  aggravating 
animal  ! ” 

“Well,  what  harm  do  they  do?” 
retorted  Sally. 

“ What  harm  ! ” cried  Brass.  “ Is  it 
no  harm  to  have  a constant  hallooing 
and  hooting  under  one’s  very  nose, 
distracting  one  from  business,  and  mak- 
ing one  grind  one’s  teeth  with  vexa- 
tion ? Is  it  no  harm  to  be  blinded  and 
choked  up,  and  have  the  king’s  highway 
stopped  with  a set  of  screamers  and 
roarers  whose  throats  must  be  made 
of— of— ” 

“ Brass,”  suggested  Mr.  Swiveller. 

“Ah!  of  brass,”  said  the  lawyer, 
glancing  at  his  clerk,  to  assure  himself 


164 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


that  he  had  suggested  the  word  in  good 
faith,  and  without  any  sinister  inten- 
tion. “ Is  that  no  harm  ? ” 

The  lawyer  stopped  short  in  his  in- 
vective, and  listening  for  a moment, 
and  recognizing  the  well-known  voice, 
rested  his  head  upon  his  hand,  raised 
his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  and  muttered 
faintly,  — 

“ There ’s  another  ! ” 

Up  went  the  single  gentleman’s  win- 
dow directly. 

“There ’s  another,”  repeated  Brass; 
“ and  if  I could  get  a break  and  four 
blood  horses  to  cut  into  the  Marks 
when  the  crowd  is  at  its  thickest,  I ’d 
give  eighteenpence  and  never  grudge 
it!” 

The  distant  squeak  was  heard  again. 
The  single  gentleman’s  door  burst  open. 
He  ran  violently  down  the  stairs,  out 
into  the  street,  and  so  past  the  window, 
without  any  hat,  towards  the  quarter 
whence  the  sound  proceeded,  — bent,  no 
doubt,  upon  securing  the  strangers’  ser- 
vices directly. 

“ I wish  I only  knew  who  his  friends 
were,”  muttered  Sampson,  filling  his 
pocket  with  papers;  “if  they’d  just 
get  up  a pretty  little  Commission  de  hi- 
natico  at  the  Gray’s  Inn  Coffee  House, 
and  give  me  the  job,  I ’d  be  content  to 
have  the  lodgings  empty  for  one  while, 
at  all  events.” 

With  which  words,  and  knocking  his 
hat  over  his  eyes  as  if  for  the  purpose 
of  shutting  out  even  a glimpse  of  the 
dreadful  visitation,  Mr.  Brass  rushed 
from  the  house  and  hurried  away. 

As  Mr.  Swiveller  was  decidedly  fa- 
vorable to  these  performances,  upon 
the  ground  that  looking  at  a Punch,  or 
indeed  looking  at  anything  out  of  win- 
dow, was  better  than  working ; and  as 
he  had  been,  for  this  reason,  at  some 
pains  to  awaken  in  his  fellow-clerk  a 
sense  of  their  beauties  and  manifold 
deserts,  both  he  and  Miss  Sally  rose  as 
with  one  accord  and  took  up  their  po- 
sitions at  the  window  : upon  the  sill 
whereof,  as  in  a post  of  honor,  sundry 
young  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  were 
employed  in  the  dry  nurture  of  babies, 
and  who  made  a point  of  being  present, 
with  their  young  charges,  on  such  oc- 
casions, had  already  established  them- 


selves as  comfortably  as  the  circumstam 
ces  would  allow. 

The  glass  being  dim,  Mr.  Swiveller, 
agreeably  to  a friendly  custom  which 
he  had  established  between  them, 
hitched  off  the  brown  head-dress  from 
Miss  Sally’s  head,  and  dusted  it  care- 
fully therewith.  By  the  time  he  had 
handed  it  back,  and  its  beautiful  wearer 
had  put  it  on  again  (which  she  did  with 
perfect  composure  and  indifference),  the 
lodger  returned  with  the  show  and  show- 
men at  his  heels,  and  a strong  addition 
to  the  body  of  spectators.  The  exhib- 
itor disappeared  with  all  speed  behind 
the  drapery  ; and  his  partner,  station- 
ing himself  by  the  side  of  the  theatre, 
surveyed  the  audience  with  a remarka- 
ble expression  of  melancholy,  which 
became  more  remarkable  still  when  he 
breathed  a hornpipe  tune  into  that  sweet 
musical  instrument  which  is  popularly 
termed  a mouth-organ,  without  at  all 
changing  the  mournful  expression  of  the 
upper  part  of  his  face,  though  his  mouth 
and  chin  were,  of  necessity,  in  lively 
spasms. 

The  drama  proceeded  to  its  close, 
and  held  the  spectators  enchained  in 
the  customary  manner.  The  sensation 
which  kindles  in  large  assemblies,  when 
they  are  relieved  from  a state  of  breath- 
less suspense  and  are  again  free  to  speak 
and  move,  was  yet  rife,  when  the  lodg- 
er, as  usual,  summoned  the  men  up 
stairs. 

“Both  of  you,”  he  called  from  the 
window  ; for  only  the  actual  exhibitor 
— a little  fat  man  — prepared  to  obey 
the  summons.  “ I want  to  talk  to  you. 
Come  both  of  you  ! ” 

« “ Come,  Tommy,”  said  the  little 

man. 

“I  ain’t  a talker,”  replied  the  other. 
“Tell  him  so.  What  should  I go  and 
talk  for?  ” 

“Don’t  you  see  the  gentleman ’s  got 
a bottle  and  glass  up  there  ? ” returned 
the  little  man. 

“And  couldn’t  ybu  have  said  so,  at 
first?”  retorted  the  other  with  sudden 
alacrity.  “Now,  what  are  you  waiting 
for  ? Are  you  going  to  keep  the  gentle- 
man expecting  us  all  day?  have  n’t  you 
no  manners?  ” 

With  this  remonstrance,  the  nwlan- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


choly  man,  who  was  no  other  than  Mr. 
Thomas  Codlin,  pushed  past  his  friend 
and  brother  in  the  craft,  Mr.  Harris, 
otherwise  Short  or  Trotters,  and  hur- 
ried before  him  to  the  single  gentleman’s 
apartment. 

“ Now,  my  men,”  said  the  single  gen- 
tleman ; “ you  have  done  very  well. 
What  w ill  you  take  ? Tell  that  little 
man  behind  to  shut  the  door.” 

“ Shut  the  door,  can’t  you  ? ” said 
Mr.  Codlin,  turning  gruffly  to  his  friend. 
“You  might  have  knowed  that  the  gen- 
tleman wanted  the  door  shut,  without 
being  told,  I think.” 

Mr.  Short  obeyed,  observing  under 
his  breath  that  his  friend  seemed  un- 
usually “ cranky,”  and  expressing  a 
hope,  that  there  was  no  dairy  in  the 
neighborhood,  or  his  temper  would  cer- 
tainly spoil  its  contents. 

The  gentleman  pointed  to  a couple  of 
chairs,  and  intimated  by  an  emphatic 
nod  of  his  head  that  he  expected  them 
to  be  seated.  Messrs.  Codlin  and 
Short,  after  looking  at  each  other  with 
considerable  doubt  and  indecision,  at 
length  sat  down,  — each  on  the  ex- 
treme edge  of  the  chair  pointed  out  to 
him, — and  held  their  hats  very  tight, 
while  the  single  gentleman  filled  a 
couple  of  glasses  from  a bottle  on  the 
table  beside  him,  and  presented  them 
in  due  form. 

“You  ’re  pretty  well  browned  by  the 
sun  both  of  you,”  said  their  entertainer. 
“ Have  you  been  travelling?  ” 

Mr.  Short  replied  in  the  affirmative 
with  a nod  and  a smile.  Mr.  Codlin 
added  a corroborative  nod  and  a short 
groan,  as  ijf  he  still  felt  the  weight  of 
the  Temple  on  his  shoulders. 

“To  fairs,  markets,  races,  and  so 
forth,  I suppose  ?”  pursued  the  single 
gentleman. 

“Yes,  sir,”  returned  Short,  “pretty 
nigh  all  over  the  West  of  England.” 

“ I have  talked  to  men  of  your  craft 
from  North,  East,  and  South,”  re- 
turned their  host,  in  rather  a hasty  man- 
ner ; “but  I never  lighted  on  any  from 
the  West  before.” 

“ It ’s  our  reg’lar  summer  circuit  is 
the  West,  master,”  said  Short ; “ that ’s 
where  it  is.  We  takes  the  East  of  Lon- 
don in  the  spring  and  winter,  and  the 


165 

West  of  England  in  the  summer  time. 
Many ’s  the  hard  day’s  walking  in  rain 
and  mud,  and  with  never  a penny 
earned,  we  ’ve  had  dowm  in  the  West.”  % 

“ Let  me  fill  your  glass  again.” 

“ Much  obleeged  to  you,  sir,  I think  I 
will,”  said  Mr.  Codlin,  suddenly  thrust- 
ing in  his  own  and  turning  Short’s 
aside.  “ I ’m  the  sufferer,  sir,  in  all 
the  travelling,  and  in  all  the  staying  at 
home.  In  town  or  country,  wet  or  dry, 
hot  or  cold,  Tom  Codlin  suffers.  But 
Tom  Codlin  is  n’t  to  complain  for  all 
that.  O no  ! Short  may  complain, 
but  if  Codlin  grumbles  by  so  much  as  a 
word,  — O dear,  down  with  him,  down 
with  him  directly.  It  is  n’t  his  place 
to  grumble.  That ’s  quite  out  of  the 
question.” 

“Codlin  ain’t  without  his  useful- 
ness,” observed  Short  with  an  arch 
look,  “but  he  don’t  always  keep  his 
eyes  open.  He  falls  asleep  sometimes 
you  know.  Remember  them  last  races, 
Tommy.” 

“Will  you  never  leave  off  aggravat- 
ing a man  ? ” said  Codlin.  “ It ’s  very 
like  I was  asleep  when  five-and-ten- 
pence  was  collected,  in  one  round,  is  n’t 
it?  I was  attending  to  my  business, 
and  could  n’t  have  my  eyes  in  twenty 
places  at  once,  like  a peacock,  no  more 
than  you  could.  If  I ain’t  a match  for 
an  old  man  and  a young  child,  you  ain’t 
neither,  so  don’t  throw  that  out  against 
me,  for  the  cap  fits  your  head  quite  as 
correct  as  it  fits  mine.” 

“You  may  as  well  drop  the  subject, 
Tom,”  said  Short.  “ It  is  n’t  particu- 
lar agreeable  to  the  gentleman,  I dare 
say.” 

“ Then  you  should  n’t  have  brought 
it  up,”  returned  Mr.  Codlin  ; “and  I 
ask  the  gentleman’s  pardon  on  your 
account,  as  a giddy  chap  that  likes  to 
hear  himself  talk,  and  don’t  much  care 
what  he  talks  about,  so  that  he  does 
talk.” 

Their  entertainer  had  sat  perfectly 
quiet  in  the  beginning  of  this  dispute, 
looking  first  at  one  man  and  then  at 
the  other,  as  if  he  were  lying  in  wait 
for  an  opportunity  of  putting  some  fur- 
ther question,  or  reverting  to  that  from 
which  the  discourse  had  strayed.  But, 
from  the  point  where  Mr.  Codlin  was 


t66 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


charged  with  sleepiness,  he  had  shown 
an  increasing  interest  in  the  discussion, 
which  now  attained  a very  high  pitch. 

“You  are  the  two  men  I want,”  he 
' said, — “the  two  men  I have  been  looking 
for,  and  searching  after  ! Where  are  that 
old  man  and  that  child  you  speak  of?” 
“Sir?”  said  Short,  hesitating  and 
looking  towards  his  friend. 

“The  old  man  and  his  grandchild 
who  travelled  with  you,  — where  are 
they?  It  w'ill  be  worth  your  while  to 
speak  out,  I assure  you ; much  better 
worth  your  while  than  you  believe. 
They  left  you,  you  say,  at  those  races 
as  I understand.  They  have  been 
traced  to  that  place,  and  there  lost  sight 
of.  Have  you  no  clew,  can  you  suggest 
no  clew,  to  their  recovery  ? ” 

“Did  I always  say,  Thomas,”  cried 
Short,  turning  with  a look  of  amaze- 
ment to  his  friend,  “ that  there  was 
sure  to  be  an  inquiry  after  them  two 
travellers  ? ” 

“ You  said  ! ” returned  Mr.  Codlin. 
“ Did  I always  say  that  that  ’ere  blessed 
child  was  the  most  interesting  I ever 
see?  Did  I always  say  I loved  her, 
and  doted  on  her  ? Pretty  creetur,  I 
think  I hear  her  now,  ‘ Codlin ’s  my 
friend,’  she  says  with  a tear  of  gratitude 
a trickling  down  her  little  eye,  — ‘ Cod- 
lin’s  my  friend,’  she  says,  ‘not  Short. 
Short ’s  very  well,’  she  says  ; ‘ I ’ve  no 
quarrel  with  Short ; he  means  kind,  I 
dare  say  ; but  Codlin,’  she  says,  ‘ has 
the  feelings  for  my  money,  though  he 
may  n’t  look  it.’  ” 

Repeating  these  words  with  great 
emotion,  Mr.  Codlin  rubbed  the  bridge 
of  his  nose  with  his  coat-sleeve,  and 
shaking  his  head  mournfully  from  side 
to  side,  left  the  single  gentleman  to  in- 
fer that,  from  the  moment  when  he  lost 
sight  of  his  dear  young  charge,  his 
peace  of  mind  and  happiness  had  fled. 

“Good  Heaven!”  said  the  single 
gentleman,  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room,  “ have  I found  these  men  at  last, 
only  to  discover  that  they  can  give  me 
no  information  or  assistance ! it  w'ould 
have  been  better  to  have  lived  on,  in 
hope,  from  day  to  day,  and  never  to 
have  lighted  on  them,  than  to  have  my 
expectations  scattered  thus.” 

“Stay  a minute,”  said  Short.  “A 


man  of  the  name  of  Jerry  — you  know 

Jerry,  Thomas?  ” 

“ O,  don’t  talk  to  me  of  Jerrys  ! ” re- 
plied Mr.  Codlin.  “ How  can  I care  a 
pinch  of  snuff  for  Jerrys,  when  I think 
of  that  ’ere  darling  child  ? ‘ Codlin ’s 

my  friend,’  she  says,  ‘ dear,  good,  kind 
Codlin,  as  is  always  a devising  pleas- 
ures for  me  ! I don’t  object  to%Short,’ 
she  says,  ‘but  I cotton  to  Codlin.’ 
Once,”  said  that  gentleman,  reflective- 
ly, “she  called  me  Father  Codlin.  I 
thought  I should  have  bust ! ” 

“A  man  of  the  name  of  Jerry,  sir,” 
said  Short,  turning  from  his  selfish  col- 
league to  their  new  acquaintance,  “ wot 
keeps  a company  of  dancing-dogs,  told 
me,  in  a accidental  sort  of  a way,  that 
he  had  seen  the  old  gentleman  in*con- 
nection  with  a travelling  wax- work,  un- 
beknown to  him.  As  they ’d  give  us 
the  slip,  and  nothing  had  come  of  it, 
and  this  was  down  in  the  country  that 
he’d  been  seen,  I took  no  measures 
about  it,  and  asked  no  questions  ; but 
I can,  if  you  like.” 

“Is  this  man  in  town?”  said  the 
impatient  single  gentleman.  “ Speak 
faster.” 

“ No  he  isn’t,  but  he  will  be  to-mor- 
row, for  he  lodges  in  our  house,”  re- 
plied Mr.  Short,  rapidly. 

“Then  bring  him  here,”  said  the  sin- 
gle gentleman.  “ Here ’s  a sovereign 
apiece.  If  I can  find  these  people 
through  your  means,  it  is  but  a prelude 
to  twenty  more.  Return  to  me  to-mor- 
row, and  keep  your  own  counsel  on  this 
subject  ; though  I need  hardly  tell  you 
that,  for  you’ll  do  so  for  your  own 
sakes.  Now,  give  me  your  address, 
and  leave  me.” 

The  address  was  given,  the  two  men 
departed,  the  crowd  went  with  them, 
and  the  single  gentleman  for  two  mortal 
hours  walked  in  uncommon  agitation 
up  and  down  his  room,  over  the  won- 
dering heads  of  Mr.  Swiveller  and  Miss 
Sally  Brass. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Kit,  — for  it  happens  at  this  juncture, 
not  only  that  we  have  breathing  time  to 
follow  his  fortunes,  but  that  the  neces- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


167 


sities  of  these  adventures  so  adapt  them- 
selves to  our  ease  and  inclination  as  to 
call  upon  us  imperatively  to  pursue  the 
track  we  most  desire  to  take,  — Kit, 
while  the  matters  treated  of  in  the  last 
fifteen  chapters  were  yet  in  progress, 
was,  as  the  reader  may  suppose,  grad- 
ually familiarizing  himself  more  and 
more  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garland,  Mr. 
Abel,  the  pony,  and  Barbara,  and  grad- 
ually coming  to  consider  them  one  and 
all  as  his  particular  private  friends, 
and  Abel  Cottage,  Finchley,  as  his  own 
proper  home. 

Stay,  — the  words  are  written,  and 
may  go,  but  if  they  convey  any  notion 
that  Kit,  in  the  plentiful  board  and 
comfortable  lodging  of  his  new  abode, 
began  to  think  slightingly  of  the  poor 
fare  and  furniture  of  his  old  dwelling, 
they  do  their  office  badly  and  commit 
injustice.  Who  so  mindful  of  those  he 
left  at  home  — albeit  they  were  but  a 
mother  and  two  young  babies  — as  Kit? 
What  boastful  father  in  the  fulness  of 
his  heart  ever  related  such  wonders  of 
his  infant  prodigy,  as  Kit  never  wearied 
of  telling  Barbara,  in  the  evening  time, 
concerning  little  Jacob  ? Was  there 
ever  such  a mother  as  Kit’s  mother,  on 
her  son’s  showing  ? or  was  there  ever 
such  comfort  in  poverty  as  in  the  pov- 
erty of  Kit’s  family,  if  any  correct  judg- 
ment might  be  arrived  at,  from  his  own 
glowing  account  ? 

And  let  me  linger  in  this  place,  for  an 
instant,  to  remark  that  if  ever  house- 
hold affections  and  loves  are  graceful 
things,  they  are  graceful  in  the  poor. 
The  ties  that  bind  the  wealthy  and  the 
proud  to  home  may  be  forged  on  earth, 
but  those  which  link  the  poor  man  to 
his  humble  hearth  are  of  the  truer  met- 
al and  bear  the  stamp  of  Heaven.  The 
man  of  high  descent  may  love  the  halls 
and  lands  of  his  inheritance  as  a part 
of  himself,  as  trophies  of  his  birth  and 
power  ; his  associations  with  them  are 
associations  of  pride  and  wealth  and 
triumph  ; the  poor  man’s  attachment  to 
the  tenement  he  holds,  which  strangers 
have  held  before,  and  may  to-morrow 
occupy  again,  has  a worthier  root, 
struck  deep  into  a purer  soil.  His 
household  gods  are  of  flesh  and  blood, 
with  no  alloy  of  silver,  gold,  or  precious 


stone  ; he  has  no  property  but  in  the 
affections  of  his  own  heart ; and  when 
they  endear  bare  floors  and  walls,  de- 
spite of  rags  and  toil  and  scanty  fare, 
that  man  has  his  love  of  home  from 
God,  and  his  rude  hut  becomes  a solemn 
place. 

Oh  ! if  those  who  rule  the  destinies  of 
nations  would,  but  remember  this,  — if 
they  would  but  think  how  hard  it  is  for 
the  very  poor  to  have  engendered  in 
their  hearts  that  love  of  home  from 
which  all  domestic  virtues  spring,  when 
they  live  in  dense  and  squalid  masses 
where  social  decency  is  lost,  or  rather 
never  found,  — if  they  would  but  turn 
aside  from  the  wide  thoroughfares  and 
great  houses,  and  strive  to  improve  the 
wretched  dwellings,  in  by-ways  where 
only  Poverty  may  walk,  — many  low 
roofs  would  point  more  truly  to  the  sky 
than  the  loftiest  steeple  that  now  rears 
proudly  up  from  the  midst  of  guilt  and 
crime  and  horrible  disease,  to  mock 
them  by  its  contrast.  In  hollow  voices 
from  Workhouse,  Hospital,  and  Jail, 
this  truth  is  preached  from  day  to  day, 
and  has  been  proclaimed  for  years.  It 
is  no  light  matter,  no  outcry  from  the 
working  vulgar,  no  mere  question  of 
the  people’s  health  and  comforts  that 
may  be  whistled  down  on  Wednesday 
nights.  In  love  of  home  the  love  of 
country  has  its  rise  ; and  who  are  the 
truer  patriots,  or  the  better  in  time  of 
need,  those  who  venerate  the  land,  own- 
ing its  wood  and  stream  and  earth,  and 
all  that  they  produce,  or  those  who 
love  their  country,  boasting  not  a foot 
of  ground  in  all  its  wide  domain  ! 

Kitknew  nothing  about  such  questions, 
but  he  knew  that  his  old  home  was  a very 
poor  place,  and  that  his  new  one  was 
very  unlike  it ; and  yet  he  was  constant- 
ly looking  back  with  grateful  satisfac- 
tion and  affectionate  anxiety,  and  often 
indited  square-folded  letters  to  his 
mother,  enclosing  a shilling  or  eighteen- 
pence  or  such  other  small  remittance, 
which  Mr.  Abel’s  liberality  enabled  him 
to  make.  Sometimes,  being  in  the 
neighborhood,  he  had  leisure  to  call 
upon  her,  and  then  great  was  the  joy 
and  pride  of  Kit’s  mother,  and  extreme- 
ly noisy  the  satisfaction  of  little  Jacob 
and  the  baby,  and  cordial  the  congratula- 


1 68 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


tions  of  the  whole  court,  who  listened 
with  admiring  ears  to  the  accounts  of 
Abel  Cottage,  and  could  never  be  told 
too  much  of  its  wonders  and  magnifi- 
cence. 

Although  Kit  was  in  the  very  highest 
favor  with  the  old  lady  and  gentleman, 
and  Mr.  Abel  and  Barbara,  it  is  certain 
that  no  member  of  the  family  evinced 
such  a remarkable  partiality  for  him  as 
the  self-willed  pony,  who,  from  being 
the  most  obstinate  and  opinionated 
pony  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  was,  in 
his  hands,  the  meekest  and  most  tract- 
able of  animals.  It  is  true  that,  in  exact 
roportion  as  he  became  manageable 
y Kit,  he  became  utterly  ungovernable 
by  anybody  else,  (as  if  he  had  deter- 
mined to  keep  him  in  the  family  at  all 
risks  and  hazards,)  and  that,  even  under 
the  guidance  of  his  favorite,  he  would 
sometimes  perform  a great  variety  of 
strange  freaks  and  capers,  to  the  ex- 
treme discomposure  of  the  old  lady’s 
nerves ; but  as  Kit  always  represented 
that  this  was  only  his  fun,  or  a way  he 
had  of  showing  his  attachment  to  his 
employers,  Mrs.  Garland  gradually  suf- 
fered herself  to  be  persuaded  into  the 
belief,  in  which  she  at  last  became  so 
strongly  confirmed,  that  if,  in  one  of 
these  ebullitions,  he  had  overturned  the 
chaise,  she  would  have  been  quite  satis- 
fied that  he  did  it  with  the  very  best  in- 
tentions. 

Besides  becoming  in  a short  time  a 
perfect  marvel  in  all  stable  matters,  Kit 
soon  made  himself  a very  tolerable  gar- 
dener, a handy  fellow  within  doors,  and 
an  indispensable  attendant  on  Mr. 
Abel,  who  every  day  gave  him  some 
new  proof  of  his  confidence  and  ap- 
probation. Mr.  Witherden  the  notary, 
too,  regarded  him  with  a friendly  eye  ; 
and  even  Mr.  Chuckster  would  some- 
times condescend  to  give  him  a slight 
nod,  or  to  honor  him  with  that  peculiar 
form  of  recognition  which  is  called  “ tak- 
ing a sight,”  or  to  favor  him  with  some 
other  salute  combining  pleasantry  with 
patronage. 

One  morning  Kit  drove  Mr.  Abel  to 
the  notary’s  office,  as  he  sometimes  did, 
and  having  set  him  down  at  the  house, 
was  about  to  drive  off  to  a livery-stable 
hard  by,  when  this  same  Mr.  Chuckster 


emerged  from  the  office  door,  and  cried, 
“ Woa-a-a-a-a-a  ! ” — dwelling  upon  the 
note  a long  time,  for  the  purpose  of 
striking  terror  into  the  pony’s  heart, 
and  asserting  the  supremacy  of  man 
over  the  inferior  animals. 

“ Pull  up,  Snobby,”  cried  Mr.  Chuck- 
ster, addressing  himself  to  Kit.  “You  ’re 
wanted  inside  here.” 

“ Has  Mr.  Abel  forgotten  anything, 
I wonder?”  said  Kit  as  he  dismounted. 

“ Ask  no  questions,  Snobby,”  re- 
turned Mr.  Chuckster,  “but  go  and  see. 
Woa-a-a  then,  will  you?  If  that  pony 
was  mine,  I ’d  break  him.” 

“ You  must  be  very  gentle  with  him, 
if  you  please,”  said  Kit,  “or  you’ll 
find  him  troublesome.  You’d  better 
not  keep  on  pulling  his  ears,  please.  I 
know  he  won’t  like  it.” 

To  this  remonstrance  Mr.  Chuckster 
deigned  no  other  answer  than  address- 
ing Kit  with  a lofty  and  distant  air  as 
“ young  feller,”  and  requesting  him  to 
cut,  and  come  again  with  all  speed. 
The  “young  feller  ” complying,  Mr. 
Chuckster  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  tried  to  look  as  if  he  were  not  mind- 
ing the  pony,  but  happened  to  be  loung- 
ing there  by  accident. 

Kit  scraped  his  shoes  very  carefully, 
(for  he  had  not  yet  lost  his  reverence 
for  the  bundles  of  papers  and  the  tin 
boxes),  and  tapped  at  the  office  door, 
which  was  quickly  opened  by  the  notary 
himself. 

“O  come  in,  Christopher,”  said  Mr. 
Witherden. 

“ Is  that  the  lad?”  asked  an  elderly 
gentleman,  but  of  a stout,  bluff  figure, 
who  was  in  the  room. 

“ That ’s  the  lad,”  said  Mr.  Wither- 
den. “ He  fell  in  with  my  client,  Mr. 
Garland,  sir,  at  this  very  door.  I have 
reason  to  think  he  is  a good  lad,  sir, 
and  that  you  may  believe  what  he  says. 
Let  me  introduce  Mr.  Abel  Garland, 
sir,  his  young  master  ; my  articled 
pupil,  sir,  and  most  particular  friend  ; — 
my  most  particular  friend,  sir,”  repeated 
the  notary,  drawing  out  his  silk  hand- 
kerchief and  flourishing  it  about  his 
face. 

“Your  servant,  sir,”  said  the  stranger 
gentleman. 

“ Yours,  sir,  I ’m  sure,”  replied  Mr 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


Abel,  mildly.  “You  were  wishing  to 
speak  to  Christopher,  sir?  ” 

“Yes,  I was.  Have  I your  permis- 
sion ? ” 

“ By  all  means.” 

“My  business  is  no  secret ; or  I should 
rather  say  it  need  be  no  secret  here,” 
said  the  stranger,  observing  that  Mr. 
Abel  and  the  notary  were  preparing  to 
retire.  “ It  relates  to  a dealer  in  curi- 
osities with  whom  he  lived,  and  in 
whom  I am  earnestly  and  warmly  in- 
terested. I have  been  a stranger  to 
this  country,  gentlemen,  for  very  many 
years,  and  if  I am  deficient  in  form  and 
ceremony,  I hope  you  will  forgive  me.” 
“ No  forgiveness  is  necessary,  sir,  — - 
none  whatever,”  replied  the  notary. 
And  so  said  Mr.  Abel. 

“ I have  been  making  inquiries  in  the 
neighborhood  in  which  his  old  master 
lived,”  said  the  stranger,  “and  I learn 
that  he  was  served  by  this  lad.  I have 
found  out  his  mother’s  house,  and  have 
been  directed  by  her  to  this  place  as  the 
nearest  in  which  I should  be  likely  to 
find  him.  That ’s  the  cause  of  my  pre- 
senting myself  here  this  morning.” 

“I  am  very  glad  of  any  cause,  sir,” 
said  the  notary,  “which  procures  me 
the  honor  of  this  visit.” 

“Sir,”  retorted  the  stranger,  “you 
speak  like  a mere  man  of  the  world,  and 
I think  you  something  better.  There- 
fore, pray  do  not  sink  your  real  charac- 
ter in  paying  unmeaning  compliments 
to  me.” 

“ Hem!”  coughed  the  notary.  “You 
’re  a plain  speaker,  sir.” 

“And  a plain  dealer,”  returned  the 
stranger.  “ It  may  be  my  long  absence 
and  inexperience  that  lead  me  to  the 
conclusion  ; but  if  plain  speakers  are 
scarce  in  this  part  of  the  world,  I fancy 
plain  dealers  are  still  scarcer.  If  my 
speaking  should  offend  you,  sir,  my 
dealing,  I hope,  will  make  amends.” 
Mr.  Witherden  seemed  a little  dis- 
concerted by  the  elderly  gentleman’s 
mode  of  conducting  the  dialogue ; and 
as  for  Kit,  he  looked  at  him  in  open- 
mouthed  astonishment;  wondering  what 
kind  of  language  he  would  address  to 
him,  if  he  talked  in  that  free-and-easy 
way  to  a notary.  It  was  no  harshness, 
however,  though  with  something  of  con- 


169 

stitutional  irritability  and  haste,  that  he 
turned  to  Kit  and  said,  — 

“ If  you  think,  my  lad,  that  I am  pur- 
suing these  inquiries  with  any  other 
view  than  that  of  serving  and  reclaim- 
ing those  I am  in  search  of,  you  do  me 
a very  great  wrong,  and  deceive  your- 
self. Don’t  be  deceived,  I beg  of  you, 
but  rely  upon  my  assurance.  The  fact 
is,  gentlemen,”  he  added,  turning  again 
to  the  notary  and  his  pupil,  “that  I am 
in  a very  painful  and  wholly  unexpected 
position.  I came  to  this  city  with  a 
darling  object  at  my  heart,  expecting  to 
find  no  obstacle  or  difficulty  in  the  way 
of  its  attainment.  I find  myself  sud- 
denly checked  and  stopped  short,  in  the 
execution  of  my  design,  by  a mystery 
which  I cannot  penetrate.  Every  effort 
I have  made  to  penetrate  it  has  only 
served  to  render  it  darker  and  more  ob- 
scure ; and  I am  afraid  to  stir  openly  in 
the  matter,  lest  those  whom  I anxiously 
pursue  should  fly  still  farther  from  me. 
I assure  you  that  if  you  could  give  me 
any  assistance,  you  would  not  be  sorry 
to  do  so,  if  you  knew  how  greatly  I 
stand  in  need  of  it,  and  what  a load  it 
would  relieve  me  from.” 

There  was  a simplicity  in  this  con- 
fidence which  occasioned  it  to  find  a 
quick  response  in  the  breast  of  the  good- 
natured  notary,  who  replied,  in  the  same 
spirit,  that  the  stranger  had  not  mista- 
ken his  desire,  and  that  if  he  could  be 
of  service  to  him,  he  would,  most  read- 
ily. . 

Kit  was  then  put  under  examination 
and  closely  questioned  by  the  unknown 
gentleman  touching  his  old  master,  and 
the  child,  their  lonely  way  of  life,  their 
retired  habits,  and  strict  seclusion.  The 
nightly  absence  of  the  old  man,  the  sol- 
itary existence  of  the  child  at  those 
times,  his  illness  and  recovery,  Quilp’s 
possession  of  the  house,  and  their  sud- 
den disappearance,  were  all  the  subjects 
of  much  questioning  and  answer.  Fi- 
nally, Kit  informed  the  gentleman  that 
the  premises  were  now  to  let,  and  that 
a board  upon  the  door  referred  all  in- 
quirers to  Mr.  Sampson  Brass,  Solicitor, 
of  Bevis  Marks,  from  whom  he  might 
perhaps  learn  some  further  particulars. 

“Not  by  inquiry,”  said  the  gentle- 
man, shaking  his  head.  “ I live  there.” 


l’JO 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“Live  at  Brass’s  the  attorney’s!” 
cried  Mr.  Witherden  in  some  surprise  ; 
having  professional  knowledge  of  the 
gentleman  in  question. 

“ Ay,”  was  the  reply.  “ I entered  on 
his  lodgings  t’other  day,  chiefly  because 
I had  seen  this  very  board.  It  matters 
little  to  me  where  I live,  and  I had  a 
desperate  hope  that  some  intelligence 
might  be  cast  in  my  way  there  which 
would  not  reach  me  elsewhere.  Yes,  I 
live  at  Brass’s,  — more  shame  for  me,  I 
suppose?” 

“That’s  a mere  matter  of  opinion,” 
said  the  notary,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
“ He  is  looked  upon  as  rather  a doubt- 
ful character.” 

“ Doubtful?  ” echoed  the  other.  “I 
am  glad  to  hear  there ’s  any  doubt  about 
it.  I supposed  that  had  been  thorough- 
ly settled  long  ago.  But  will  you  let 
me  speak  a word  or  two  with  you  in 
private  ? ” 

Mr.  Witherden  consenting,  they 
walked  into  that  gentleman’s  private 
closet,  and  remained  there,  in  close 
conversation,  for  some  quarter  of  an 
hour,  when  they  returned  into  the  outer 
office.  The  stranger  had  left  his  hat  in 
Mr.  Witherden’s  room,  and  seemed  to 
have  established  himself  in  this  short 
interval  on  quite  a friendly  footing. 

“ I ’ll  not  detain  you  any  longer  now,” 
he  said,  putting  a crown  into  Kit’s  hand, 
and  looking  towards  the  notary.  “ You 
shall  hear  from  me  again.  Not  a word 
of  this,  you  know,  except  to  your  mas- 
ter and  mistress.” 

“ Mother,  sir,  would  be  glad  to 
know  — ” said  Kit,  faltering. 

“ Glad  to  know  what  ? ” 

“Anything  — so  that  it  was  no  harm 
— about  Miss  Nell.” 

“Would  she?  Well,  then,  you  may 
tell  her  if  she  can  keep  a secret.  But 
mind,  not  a word  of  this  to  anybody 
else.  Don’t  forget  that.  Be  particu- 
lar.” 

“ I ’ll  take  care,  sir,”  said  Kit. 
“ Thank ’ee,  sir,  and  good  morning.” 

Now,  it  happened  that  the  gentle- 
man, in  his  anxiety  to  impress  upon 
Kit  that  he  was  not  to  tell  anybody 
what  had  passed  between  them,  fol- 
lowed him  out  to  the  door  to  repeat  his 
caution,  and  it  further  happened  that  at 


that  moment  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Richard 
Swiveller  were  turned  in  that  direc- 
tion, and  beheld  his  mysterious  friend 
and  Kit  together. 

It  was  quite  an  accident,  and  the  way 
in  which  it  came  about  was  this.  Mr. 
Chuckster,  being  a gentleman  of  a cul- 
tivated taste  and  refined  spirit,  was 
one  of  that  Lodge  of  Glorious  Apollos 
whereof  Mr.  Swiveller  was  Perpetual 
Grand.  Mr.  Swiveller  passing  through 
the  street  in  the  execution  of  some 
Brazen  errand,  and  beholding  one  of 
his  Glorious  Brotherhood  intently  gaz- 
ing on  a pony,  crossed  over  to  give  him 
that  fraternal  greeting  with  which  Per- 
petual Grands  are,  by  the  very  consti- 
tution of  their  office,  bound  to  cheer 
and  encourage  their  disciples.  He  had 
scarcely  bestowed  upon  him  his  bless- 
ing, and  followed  it  with  a general  re- 
mark touching  the  present  state  and 
prospects  of  the  weather,  when,  lifting 
up  his  eyes,  he  beheld  the  single  gen- 
tleman of  Bevis  Marks  in  earnest  con- 
versation with  Christopher  Nubbles. 

“Hallo!”  said  Dick,  “who  wthat?” 

“ He  called  to  see  my  governor  this 
morning,”  replied  Mr.  Chuckster  ; “be- 
yond that,  I don’t  know  him  from 
Adam.” 

“ At  least  you  know  his  name  ? ” said 
Dick. 

To  which  Mr.  Chuckster  replied  with 
an  elevation  of  speech  becoming  a Glo- 
rious Apollo,  that  he  was  “ everlast- 
ingly blessed  ” if  he  did. 

“All  I know,  my  dear  feller,”  said  Mr. 
Chuckster,  running  his  fingers  through 
his  hair,  “ is,  that  he  is  the  cause  of  my 
having  stood  here  twenty  minutes,  for 
which  I hate  him  with  a mortal  and  un- 
dying hatred,  and  would  pursue  him  to 
the  confines  of  eternity  if  I could  afford 
the  time.” 

While  they  were  thus  discoursing, 
the  subject  of  their  conversation  (who 
had  not  appeared  to  recognize  Mr. 
Richard  Swiveller)  re-entered  the 
house,  and  Kit  came  down  the  steps 
and  joined  them  ; to  whom  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller again  propounded  his  inquiry  with 
no  better  success. 

“ He  is  a very  nice  gentleman,  sir,” 
said  Kit,  “and  that ’s  all  / know  about 
him.” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


171 


Mr.  Chuckster  waxed  wroth  at  this 
answer,  and  without  applying  the  re- 
mark to  any  particular  case,  mentioned, 
as  a general  truth,  that  it  was  expedient 
to  break  the  heads  of  snobs,  and  to 
tweak  their  noses.  Without  expressing 
his  concurrence  in  this  sentiment,  Mr. 
Swiveller,  after  a few  moments  of  ab- 
straction, inquired  which  way  Kit  was 
driving,  and,  being  informed,  declared 
it  was  his  way,  and  that  he  would  tres- 
pass on  him  for  a lift.  Kit  would  gladly 
have  declined  the  proffered  honor,  but 
as  Mr.  Swiveller  was  already  established 
in  the  seat  beside  him,  he  had  no  means 
of  doing  so,  otherwise  than  by  a forci- 
ble ejectment,  and  therefore  drove  brisk- 
ly off, — so  briskly,  indeed,  as  to  cut 
short  the  leave-taking  between  Mr. 
Chuckster  and  his  Grand  Master,  and 
to  occasion  the  former  gentleman  some 
inconvenience  from  having  his  corns 
squeezed  by  the  impatient  pony. 

As  Whisker  was  tired  of  standing, 
and  Mr.  Swiveller  was  kind  enough  to 
stimulate  him  by  shrill  whistles  and 
various  sporting  cries,  they  rattled  off 
at  too  sharp  a pace  to  admit  of  much 
conversation : especially  as  the  pony, 
incensed  by  Mr.  Swiveller’s  admoni- 
tions, took  a particular  fancy  for  the 
lamp-posts  and  cart-wheels,  and  evinced 
a strong  desire  to  run  on  the  pavement 
and  rasp  himself  against  the  brick  walls. 
It  was  not,  therefore,  until  they  had 
arrived  at  the  stable,  and  the  chaise 
had  been  extricated  from  a very  small 
doorway,  into  which  the  pony  dragged 
it  under  the  impression  that  he  could 
take  it  along  with  him  into  his  usual 
stall,  that  Mr.  Swiveller  found  time  to 
talk. 

“It’s  hard  work,”  said  Richard. 
“What  do  you  say  to  some  beer?” 

Kit  at  first  declined,  but  presently 
consented,  and  they  adjourned  to  the 
neighboring  bar  together. 

“We’ll  drink  our  friend  what’s-his- 
name,”  said  Dick,  holding  up  the  bright 
frothy  pot,  “ that  was  talking  to  you 
this  morning,  you  know  — /know  him 

— a good  fellow,  but  eccentric  — very 

— here’s  what’s-his-name.” 

Kit  pledged  him. 

“ He  lives  in  my  house,”  said  Dick  ; 
“ at  least  in  the  house  occupied  by  the 


firm  in  which  I ’m  a sort  of  a — of  a 
managing  partner,  — a difficult  fellow 
to  get  anything  out  of,  but  we  like  him, 
— we  like  him.” 

“ I must  be  going,  sir,  if  you  please,” 
said  Kit,  moving  away. 

“ Don’t  be  in  a hurry,  Christopher,” 
replied  his  patron,  “we  ’ll  drink  your 
mother.” 

“ Thank  you,  sir.” 

“ An  excellent  woman  that  mother 
of  yours,  Christopher,”  said  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller. “Who  ran  to  catch  me  when  I 
fell,  and  kissed  the  place  to  make  it 
well  ? My  mother.  A charming  wo- 
man. He  ’s  a liberal  sort  of  fellow.  We 
must  get  him  to  do  something  for  your 
mother.  Does  he  know  her,  Christo- 
pher? ” 

Kit  shook  his  head,  and  glancing  slyly 
at  his  questioner,  thanked  him,  and  made 
off  before  he  could  say  another  word. 

“Humph  ! ” said  Mr.  Swiveller,  pon- 
dering, “this  is  queer.  Nothing  but 
mysteries  in  connection  with  Brass’s 
house.  I ’ll  keep  my  own  counsel, 
however.  Everybody  and  anybody  has 
been  in  my  confidence  as  yet,  but  now 
I think  I ’ll  set  up  in  business  for  my- 
self. Queer,  — very  queer ! ” 

After  pondering  deeply  and  with  a 
fctce  of  exceeding  wisdom  for  some  time, 
Mr.  Swiveller  drank  some  more  of  the 
beer,  and  summoning  a small  boy  who 
had  been  watching  his  proceedings, 
poured  forth  the  few  remaining  drops 
as  a libation  on  the  gravel,  and  bade 
him  carry  the  empty  vessel  to  the  bar 
with  his  compliments,  and  above  all 
things  to  lead  a sober  and  temperate 
life,  and  abstain  from  all  intoxicating 
and  exciting  liquors.  Having  given 
him  this  piece  of  moral  advice  for  his 
trouble  (which,  as  he  wisely  observed, 
was  far  better  than  half-pence)  the  Per- 
petual Grand  Master  of  the  Glorious 
Apollos  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pock- 
ets and  sauntered  away,  still  pondering 
as  he  went. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

All  that  day,  though  he  waited  for 
Mr.  Abel  until  evening,  Kit  kept  clear 


I72 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


of  his  mother’s  house,  determined  not 
to  anticipate  the  pleasures  of  the  mor- 
row, but  to  let  them  come  in  their  full 
rush  of  delight  ; for  to-morrow  was  the 
great  and  long-looked- for  epoch  in  his 
life,  — to-morrow  was  the  end  of  his 
first  quarter,  — the  day  of  receiving, 
for  the  first  time,  one  fourth  part  of  his 
annual  income  of  Six  Pounds  in  one 
vast  sum  of  Thirty  Shillings,  - to-mor- 
row was  to  be  a half-holiday  devoted 
to  a whirl  of  entertainments,  and  little 
Jacob  was  to  know  what  oysters  meant, 
and  to  see  a play. 

All  manner  of  incidents  combined  in 
favor  of  the  occasion.  Not  only  had  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Garland  forewarned  him  that 
they  intended  to  make  no  deduction  for 
his  outfit  from  the  great  amount,  but  to 
pay  it  him  unbroken  in  all  its  gigantic 
grandeur ; not  only  had  the  unknown 
gentleman  increased  the  stock  by  the 
sum  of  five  shillings,  which  was  a per- 
fect godsend  and  in  itself  a fortune ; 
not  only  had  these  things  come  to  pass 
which  nobody  could  have  calculated 
upon,  or  in  their  wildest  dreams  have 
hoped  ; but  it  was  Barbara’s  quarter 
too,  — Barbara’s  quarter,  that  very  day, 
— and  Barbara  had  a half-holiday  as 
well  as  Kit,  and  Barbara’s  mother  was 
going  to  make  one  of  the  party,  and  to 
take  tea  with  Kit’s  mother,  and  culti- 
vate her  acquaintance. 

To  be  sure  Kit  looked  out  of  his  win- 
dow very  early  that  morning  to  see 
which  way  the  clouds  were  flying,  and 
to  be  sure  Barbara  would  have  been 
at  hers  too,  if  she  had  not  sat  up  so 
late  overnight,  starching  and  ironing 
small . pieces  of  muslin,  and  crimping 
them  into  frills,  and  sewing  them  on  to 
other  pieces  to  form  magnificent  wholes 
for  next  day’s  wear.  But  they  were 
both  up  very  early  for  all  that,  and  had 
small  appetites  for  breakfast  and  less 
for  dinner,  and  were  in  a state  of  great 
excitement  when  Barbara’s  mother 
came  in,  with  astonishing  accounts  of 
the  fineness  of  the  weather  out  of  doors 
(but  with  a very  large  umbrella,  not- 
withstanding, for  people  like  Barbara’s 
mother  seldom  make  holiday  without 
one),  and  when  the  bell  rung  for  them 
to  go  up  stairs  and  receive  their  quar- 
ter’s money  in  gold  and  silver. 


Well,  wasn’t  Mr.  Garland  kind  when 
he  said,  “ Christopher,  here ’s  your 
money,  and  you  have  earned  it  well  ” ? 
and  was  n’t  Mrs.  Garland  kind  when 
she  said,  “Barbara,  here’s  yours,  and 
I’m  much  pleased  with  you”?  and 
did  n’t  Kit  sign  his  name  bold  to  his 
receipt,  and  did  n’t  Barbara  sign  her 
name  all  a-trembling  to  hers?  and 
was  n’t  it  beautiful  to  see  how  Mrs. 
Garland  poured  out  Barbara’s  mother 
a glass  of  wine?  and  didn’t  Barbara’s 
mother  speak  up  when  she  said,  “ Here’s 
blessing  you,  ma’am,  as  a good  lady, 
and  you,  sir,  as  a good  gentleman,  and, 
Barbara,  my  love  to  you,  and  here ’s 
towards  you,  Mr.  Christopher  ” ? and 
was  n’t  she  as  long  drinking  it  as  if  it 
had  been  a tumblerful  ? and  didn’t  she 
look  genteel,  standing  there  with  her 
gloves  on  ? and  was  n’t  there  plenty  of 
laughing  and  talking  among  them  as 
they  reviewed  all  these  things  upon  the 
top  of  the  coach  ? and  did  n’t  they  pity 
the  people  who  hadn’t  got  a holiday? 

But  Kit’s  mother,  again  — wouldn’t 
anybody  have  supposed  she  had  come 
of  a good  stock  and  been  a lady  all  her 
life  ? There  she  was,  quite  ready  to 
receive  them,  with  a display  of  tea- 
things  that  might  have  warmed  the 
heart  of  a china-shop  ; and  little  Jacob 
and.  the  baby  in  such  a state  of  per- 
fection that  their  clothes  looked  as 
good  as  new,  though  Heaven  knows 
they  were  old  enough  ! Didn’t  she  say 
before  they  had  sat  down  five  minutes 
that  Barbara’s  mother  was  exactly  the 
sort  of  lady  she  expected?  and  didn’t 
Barbara’s  mother  say  that  Kit’s  mother 
was  the  very  picture  of  what  she  had 
expected  ? and  did  n’t  Kit’s  mother  com- 
pliment Barbara’s  mother  on  Barbara, 
and  did  n’t  Barbara’s  mother  compli- 
ment Kit’s  mother  on  Kit  ? and  was  n’t 
Barbara  herself  quite  fascinated  with 
little  Jacob,  and  did  ever  a child  show 
off  when  he  was  wanted  as  that  child 
did,  or  make  such  friends  as  he  made  ? 

“And  we  are  both  widows  too?” 
said  Barbara’s  mother.  “We  must 
have  been  made  to  know  each  other.” 

“ I have  n’t  a doubt  about  it,”  re- 
turned Mrs.  Nubbles.  “And  what  a 
pity  it  is  we  didn’t  know  each  other 
sooner  1 ” 


THE  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


i73 


“ But  then,  you  know,  it ’s  such  a 
pleasure,”  said  Barbara’s  mother,  “to 
have  it  brought  about  by  one’s  son  and 
daughter,  that  it ’s  fully  made  up  for. 
Now,  ain’t  it?” 

“ To  this  Kit’s  mother  yielded  her 
full  assent,  and,  tracing  things  back  from 
effects  to  causes,  they  naturally  reverted 
to  their  deceased  husbands,  respecting 
whose  lives,  deaths,  and  burials  they 
compared  notes,  and  discovered  sundry 
circumstances  that  tallied  with  wonder- 
ful exactness,  — such  as  Barbara’s  father 
having  been  exactly  four  years  and  ten 
months  older  than  Kit’s  father,  and  one 
of  them  having  died  on  a Wednesday 
and  the  other  on  a Thursday,  and  tfoth 
of  them  having  been  of  a very  fine  make 
and  remarkably  good-looking,  with  other 
extraordinary  coincidences.  These  rec- 
ollections being  of  a kind  calculated  to 
cast  a shadow  on  the  brightness  of  the 
holiday,  Kit  diverted  the  conversation 
to  general  topics,  and  they  v^ere  soon  in 
great  force  again,  and  as  merry  as  be- 
fore. Among  other  things,  Kit  told 
them  about  his  old  place,  and  the 
extraordinary  beauty  of  Nell  (of  whom 
he  had  talked  to  Barbara  a thousand 
times  already) ; but  the  last-named  cir- 
cumstance failed  to  interest  his  hearers 
to  anything  like  the  extent  he  had  sup- 
posed, and  even  his  mother  said  (look- 
ing accidentally  at  Barbara  at  the  same 
time),  that  there  was  no  doubt  Miss  Nell 
was  very  pretty,  but  she  was  but  a child, 
after  all,  and  there  were  many  young 
women  quite  as  pretty  as  she ; and 
Barbara  mildly  observed  that  she  should 
think  so,  and  that  she  never  could  help 
believing  Mr.  Christopher  must  be  un- 
der a mistake,  — which  Kit  wondered  at 
very  much,  not  being  able  to  conceive 
what  reason  she  had  for  doubting  him. 
Barbara’s  mother,  too,  observed  that  it 
was  very  common  for  young  folks  to 
change  at  about  fourteen  or  fifteen,  and, 
whereas  they  had  been  very  pretty  be- 
fore, to  grow  up  quite  plain  ; which 
truth  she  illustrated  by  many  forcible 
examples,  especially  one  of  a young 
man,  who,  being  a builder  with  great 
prospects,  had  been  particular  in  his 
attentions  to  Barbara,  but  whom  Bar- 
bara would  have  nothing  to  say  to  ; 
which  (though  everything  happened  for 


the  best)  she  almost  thought  was  a pity. 
Kit  said  he  thought  so  too,  and  so  he 
did  honestly,  and  he  wondered  what 
made  Barbara  so  silent  all  at  once,  and 
why  his  mother  looked  at  him  as  if  he 
should  n’t  have  said  it. 

However,  it  was  high  time  now  to  be 
thinking  of  the  play  ; for  which  great 
preparation  was  required  in  the  way  of 
shawls  and  bonnets,  not  to  mention  one 
handkerchief  full  of  oranges  and  an- 
other of  apples,  which  took  some  time 
tying  up,  in  consequence  of  the  fruit 
having  a tendency  to  roll  out  at  the 
corners.  At  length  everything  was 
ready,  and  they  went  off  very  fast ; 
Kit’s  mother  carrying  the  baby,  who 
was  dreadfully  wide  awake,  and  Kit 
holding  little  Jacob  in  one  hand,  and 
escorting  Barbara  with  the  other,  — a 
state  of  things  which  occasioned  the 
two  mothers,  who  walked  behind,  to 
declare  that  they  looked  quite  family 
folks,  and  caused  Barbara  to  blush  and 
say,  “Now  don’t,  mother!”  But  Kit 
said  she  had  no  call  to  mind  what  they 
said  ; and  indeed  she  need  not  have 
had,  if  she  had  known  how  very  far 
from  Kit’s  thoughts  any  love-making 
was.  Poor  Barbara ! 

At  last  they  got  to  the  theatre,  which 
was  Astley’s  ; and  in  some  two  min- 
utes after  they  had  reached  the  yet  un- 
opened door,  little  Jacob  was  squeezed 
flat,  and  the  baby  had  received  divers 
concussions,  and  Barbara’s  mother’s  um- 
brella had  been  carried  several  yards 
off,  and  passed  back  to  her  over  the 
shoulders  of  the  people,  and  Kit  had 
hit  a man  on  the  head  with  the  hand- 
kerchief of  apples  for  “scrowdging” 
his  parent  with  unnecessary  violence, 
and  there  was  a great  uproar.  But 
when  they  were  once  past  the  pay-place, 
and  tearing  away  for  very  life  with  their 
checks  in  their  hands,  and,  above  all, 
when  they  were  fairly  in  the  theatre, 
and  seated  in  such  places  that  they 
couldn’t  have  had  better  if  they  had 
picked  them  out,  and  taken  them  be- 
forehand, all  this  was  looked  upon  as 
quite  a capital  joke,  and  an  essential 
part  of  the  entertainment. 

Dear,  dear,  what  a place  it  looked, 
that  Astley’s  ! with  all  the  paint,  gild- 
ing, and  looking-glass ; the  vague  smell 


174 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


of  horses  suggestive  of  coming  won- 
ders ; the  curtain  that  hid  such  gor- 
geous mysteries  ; the  clean  white  saw- 
dust down  in  the  circus  ; the  company 
coming  in  and  taking  their  places ; 
the  fiddlers  looking  carelessly  up  at 
them  while  they  tuned  their  instru- 
ments, as  if  they  did  n’t  want  the  play 
to  begin,  and  knew  it  all  beforehand  ! 
What  a glow  was  that,  which  burst 
upon  them  all  when  that  long,  clear, 
brilliant  row  of  lights  came  slowly  up  ; 
and  what  the  feverish  excitement  when 
the  little  bell  rang,  and  the  music  began 
in  good  earnest,  with  strong  parts  for 
the  drums,  and  sweet  effects  for  the 
triangles  ! Well  might  Barbara’s  moth- 
er say  to  Kit’s  mother  that  the  gallery 
was  the  place  to  see  from,  and  wonder 
it  was  n’t  much  dearer  than  the  boxes  ; 
well  might  Barbara  feel  doubtful  wheth- 
er to  laugh  or  cry,  in  her  flutter  of  de- 
light. 

Then  the  play  itself!  the  horses 
which  little  Jacob  believed  from  the 
first  to  be  alive,  and  the  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  whose  reality  he  could  be 
by  no  means  persuaded,  having  never 
seen  or  heard  anything  at  all  like  them, 

— the  firing,  which  made  Barbara  wink, 

— the  forlorn  lady,  who  made  her  cry, 

— the  tyrant,  w'ho  made  her  tremble,  — 
the  man  who  sang  the  song  with  the 
lady’s-maid,  and  danced  the  chorus, 
who  made  her  laugh, — the  pony  who 
reared  up  on  his  hind  legs  when  he  saw 
the  murderer,  and  wouldn’t  hear  of 
walking  on  all  fours  again  until  he  was 
taken  into  custody,  — the  clown  who 
ventured  on  such  familiarities  with  the 
military  man  in  boots,  — the  lady  who 
jumped  over  the  nine-and-twenty  rib- 
bons, and  came  down  safe  upon  the 
horse’s  back,  — everything  was  delight- 
ful, splendid,  and  surprising ! Little 
Jacob  applauded  till  his  hands  were 
sore  ; Kit  cried  “ an-kor  ” at  the  end  of 
everything,  the  three-act  piece  includ- 
ed ; and  Barbara’s  mother  beat  her 
umbrella  on  the  floor,  in  her  ecstasies, 
until  it  was  nearly  worn  down  to  the 
gingham. 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  fascinations, 
Barbara’s  thoughts  seemed  to  have 
been  still  running  on  what  Kit  had  said 
at  tea-time ; for,  when  they  were  com- 


ing out  of  the  play,  she  asked  him,  with 
an  hysterical  simper,  if  Miss  Nell  was 
as  handsome  as  the  lady  who  jumped 
over  the  ribbons. 

“As  handsome  as  her ?”  said  Kit. 
“Double  as  handsome.” 

“O  Christopher  ! I ’m  sure  she  was 
the  beautifullest  creature  ever  was,” 
said  Barbara. 

“Nonsense!”  returned  Kit.  “She 
was  well  enough,  I don’t  deriy  that ; 
but  think  how  she  was  dressed  and 
painted,  and  what  a difference  that 
made.  Why  you  are  a good  deal  bet- 
ter looking  than  her,  Barbara.” 

“ O Christopher  ! ” said  Barbara, 
looking  down. 

“You  are,  any  day,”  said  Kit,  “and 
so  ’s  your  mother.” 

Poor  Barbara ! 

What  was  all  this,  though,  — even  all 
this,  — to  the  extraordinary  dissipation 
that  ensued,  when  Kit,  walking  into  an 
oyster-shop  as  bold  as  if  he  lived  there, 
and  not  so  much  as  looking  at  the  coun- 
ter or  the  man  behind  it,  led  his  party 
into  a box, — a private  box,  fitted  up 
with  red  curtains,  white  tablecloth,  and 
cruet-stand  complete, — and  ordered  a 
fierce  gentleman  with  whiskers,  who 
acted  as  waiter  and  called  him  — him, 
Christopher  Nubbles — “ Sir,”  to  bring 
three  dozen  of  his  largest-sized  oysters, 
and  to  look  sharp  about  it  ! Yes,  Kit 
told  this  gentleman  to  look  sharp,  and 
he  not  only  said  he  would  look  sharp, 
but  he  actually  did,  and  presently  came 
running  back  with  the  newest  loaves, 
and  the  freshest  butter,  and  the  largest 
oysters,  ever  seen.  Then  said  Kit  to 
this  gentleman,  “A  pot  of  beer,”  — 
just  so,  — and  the  gentleman,  instead  of 
replying,  “Sir,  did  you  address  that 
language  to  me?”  only  said,  “Pot  o’ 
beer,  sir?  yes,  sir,”  and  went  off  and 
fetched  it,  and  put  it  on  the  table  in  a 
small  decanter-stand,  like  those  which 
blind  men’s  dogs  carry  about  the  streets 
in  their  mouths,  to  catch  the  half-pence 
in ; and  both  Kit’s  mother  and  Bar- 
bara’s mother  declared  as  he  turned 
away,  that  he  was  one  of  the  slimmest 
and  gracefullest  young  men  she  had 
ever  looked  upon. 

Then  they  fell  to  work  upon  the  sup- 
per in  earnest ; and  there  was  Barbara, 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


. x75 


that  foolish  Barbara,  declaring  that  she 
couldn’t  eat  more  than  two,  and  want- 
ing more  pressing  than  you  would  be- 
lieve before  she  would  eat  four  ; though 
her  mother  and  Kit’s  mother  made  up 
for  it  pretty  well,  and  ate  and  laughed 
and  enjoyed  themselves  so  thoroughly 
that  it  did  Kit  good  to  see  them,  and 
made  him  laugh  and  eat  likewise  from 
strong  sympathy.  But  the  greatest 
miracle  of  the  night  was  little  Jacob, 
who  ate  oysters  as  if  he  had  been  born 
and  bred  to  the  business,  sprinkled  the 
pepper  and  the  vinegar  with  a discretion 
beyond  his  years,  and  afterwards  built 
a grotto  on  the  table  with  the  shells. 
There  was  the  baby,  too,  who  had  never 
closed  an  eye  all  night,  but  had  sat  as 
good  as  gold,  trying  to  force  a large 
orange  into  his  mouth,  and  gazing  in- 
tently at  the  lights  in  the  chandelier,  — 
there  he  was,  sitting  up  in  his  mother’s 
lap,  staring  at  the  gas  without  winking, 
and  making  indentations  in  his  soft  vis- 
age with  an  oyster-shell,  to  that  degree 
that  a heart  of  iron  must  have  loved 
him  ! In  short,  there  never  was  a more 
successful  supper ; and  when  Kit  or- 
dered in  a glass  of  something  hot  to  finish 
with,  and  proposed  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gar- 
land before  sending  it  round,  there  were 
not  six  happier  people  in  all  the  world. 

But  all  happiness  has  an  end,  — hence 
the  chief  pleasure  of  its  next  beginning, 
— and  as  it  was  now  growing  late,  they 
agreed  it  was  time  to  turn  their  faces 
homewards.  So,  after  going  a little  out 
of  their  way  to  see  Barbara  and  Bar- 
bara’s mother  safe  to  a friend’s  house 
where  they  were  to  pass  the  night,  Kit 
and  his  mother  left  them  at  the  door, 
with  an  early  appointment  for  returning 
to  Finchley  next  morning,  and  a great 
many  plans  for  next  quarter’s  enjoy- 
ment. Then  Kit  took  little  Jacob  on 
his  back,  and,  giving  his  arm  to  his 
mother  and  a kiss  to  the  baby,  they  all 
trudged  merrily  home  together. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Full  of  that  vague  kind  of  penitence 
which  holidays  awaken  next  morning. 
Kit  turned  out  at  sunrise,  and,  with  his 


faith  in  last  night’s  enjoyments  a little 
shaken  by  cool  daylight  and  the  return 
to  every-day  duties  and  occupations, 
went  to  meet  Barbara  and  her  mother 
at  the  appointed  place.  And  being 
careful  not  to  awaken  any  of  the  little 
household,  who  were  yet  resting  from 
their  unusual  fatigues,  Kit  left  his 
money  on  the  chimney-piece,  with  an 
inscription  in  chalk  calling  his  mother’s 
attention  to  the  circumstance,  and 
informing  her  that  it  came  from  her 
dutiful  son ; and  went  his  way,  with  a 
heart  something  heavier  than  his 
pockets,  but  free  from  any  very  great 
oppression  notwithstanding. 

O these  holidays  ! why  will  they 
leave  us  some  regret?  why  cannot  we 
push  them  back,  only  a week  or  two  in 
our  memories,  so  as  to  put  them  at  once 
at  that  convenient  distance  whence  they 
may  be  regarded  either  with  a calm 
indifference  or  a pleasant  effort  of 
recollection  ? why  will  they  hang  about 
us,  like  the  flavor  of  yesterday’s  wine, 
suggestive  of  headaches  and  lassitude, 
and  those  good  intentions  for  the  future, 
which,  under  the  earth,  form  the  ever- 
lasting.  pavement  of  a large  estate,  and, 
upon  it,  usually  endure  until  dinner- 
time or  thereabouts? 

Who  will  wonder  that  Barbara  had  a 
headache,  or  that  Barbara’s  mother  was 
disposed  to  be  cross,  or  that  she  slightly 
underrated  Astley’s,  and  thought  the 
clown  was  older  than  they  had  taken 
him  to  be  last  night?  Kit  was  not 
surprised  to  hear  her  say  so, — not  he. 
He  had  already  had  a misgiving  that 
the  inconstant  actors  in  that  dazzling 
vision  had  been  doing  the  same  thing 
the  night  before  last,  and  would  do  it 
again  that  night,  and  the  next,  and  for 
weeks  and  months  to  come,  though 
he  would  not  be  there.  Such  is  the 
difference  between  yesterday  and  to-day. 
We  are  all  going  to  the  play,  or  coming 
home  from  it.  * 

However,  the  sun  himself  is  weak 
when  he  first  rises,  and  gathers  strength 
and  courage  as  the  day  gets  on.  By 
degrees,  they  began  to  recall  circum- 
stances more  and  more  pleasant  in  their 
nature,  until,  what  between  talking, 
walking,  and  laughing,  they  readied 
Finchley  in  such  good  heart  that 


176 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


Barbara’s  mother  declared  she  never 
felt  less  tired  or  in  better  spirits.  And 
so  said  Kit.  Barbara  had  been  silent 
all  the  way,  but  she  said  so  too.  Poor 
little  Barbara  ! She  was  very  quiet. 

They  were  at  home  in  such  good  time 
that  Kit  had  rubbed  down  the  pony,  and 
made  him  as  spruce  as  a race-horse, 
before  Mr.  Garland  came  down  • to 
breakfast ; which  punctual  and  industri- 
ous conduct  the  old  lady  and  the  old 
gentleman  and  Mr.  Abel  highly  ex- 
tolled. At  his  usual  hour  (or  rather  at 
his  usual  minute  and  second,  for  he  was 
the  soul  of  punctuality)  Mr.  Abel 
walked  out,  to  be  overtaken  by  the 
London  coach,  and  Kit  and  the  old 
gentleman  went  to  work  in  the 
garden. 

This  was  not  the  least  pleasant  of 
Kit’s  employments.  On  a fine  day  they 
were  quite  a family  party  ; the  old  lady 
sitting  hard  by  with  her  work-basket  on 
a little  table  ; the  old  gentleman  dig- 
ging, or  pruning,  or  clipping  about  with 
a large  pair  of  shears,  or  helping  Kit 
in  some  way  or  other  with  great  assidui- 
ty ; and  Whisker  looking  on  from  his 
paddock  in  placid  contemplation  of 
them  all.  To-day  they  were  to  trim 
the  grape-vine,  so  Kit  mounted  half- 
way up  a short  ladder,  and  began  to 
snip  and  hammer  away,  while  the  old 
gentleman,  with  a great  interest  in  his 
proceedings,  handed  up  the  nails  and 
shreds  of  cloth  as  he  wanted  them. 
The  old  lady  and  Whisker  looked  on 
as  usual. 

“Well,  Christopher,”  said  Mr.  Gar- 
land, “ and  so  you  have  made  a new 
friend,  eh?” 

“I  beg  your  pardon,  sir?”  returned 
Kit,  looking  down  from  the  ladder. 

“You  have  made  a new  friend,  I hear 
from  Mr.  Abel,”  said  the  old,gentleman, 
“ at  the  office  ! ” 

“ O — yes,  sir,  yes.  He  behaved  very 
handsome,  sir.” 

“I’m  glad  to  hear  it,”  returned  the 
old  gentleman,  with  a smile.  “ He  is 
disposed  to  behave  more  handsomely 
still,  though,  Christopher.” 

“ Indeed,  sir  ! It ’s  very  kind  in 
him,  but  I don’t  want  him  to,  I ’m 
sure,”  said  Kit,  hammering  stoutly  at 
an  obdurate  nail. 


“ He  is  rather  anxious,”  pursued  the 
old  gentleman,  “ to  have  you  in  his  dwn 
service  — take  care  what  you  ’re  doing, 
or  you  will  fall  down  and  hurt  your- 
self.” 

“To  have  me  in  his  service,  sir!” 
cried  Kit,  who  had  stopped  short  in  his 
work  and  faced  about  on  the  ladder  like 
some  dexterous  tumbler.  “ Why,  sir, 
I don’t  think  he  can  be  in  earnest  when 
he  says  that.” 

“O,  but  he  is  indeed,”  said  Mr. 
Garland;  “and  he  has  told  Mr.  Abel 
so.” 

“ I never  heard  of  such  a thing ! ” 
muttered  Kit,  looking  ruefully  at  his 
master  and  mistress.  “ I wonder  at 
him  ; that  I do.” 

“You  see,  Christopher,”  said  Mr. 
Garland,  “ this  is  a point  of  much  im- 
portance to  you,  and  you  should  under- 
stand and  consider  it  in  that  light. 
This  gentleman  is  able  to  give  you 
more  money  than  I ; not,  I hope,  to 
carry  through  the  various  relations  of 
master  and  servant,  more  kindness  and 
confidence,  but  certainly,  Christopher, 
to  give  you  more  money.” 

“Well,”  said  Kit,  “after  that,  sir — ” 

“Wait  a moment,”  interposed  Mr. 
Garland.  “ That  is  not  all.  You  were 
a very  faithful  servant  to  your  old  em- 
ployers, as  I understand,  and  should 
this  gentleman  recover  them,  as  it  is 
his  purpose  to  attempt  doing  by  every 
means  in  his  power,  I have  no  doubt 
that  you,  being  in  his  service,  would 
meet  with  your  reward.  Besides,” 
added  the  old  gentleman,  with  stronger 
emphasis, — “besides  havingthe  pleasure 
of  being  again  brought  into  communi- 
cation with  those  to  whom  you  seem  to 
be  so  very  strongly  and  disinterestedly 
attached.  You  must  think  of  all  this, 
Christopher,  and  not  be  rash  or  hasty 
in  your  choice.” 

Kit  did  suffer  one  twinge,  one  mo- 
mentary pang,  in  keeping  the  resolution 
he  had  already  formed,  when  this  last 
argument  passed  swiftly  into  his  thoughts, 
and  conjured  up  the  realization  of  all 
his  hopes  and  fancies.  But  it  was  gone 
in  a minute,  and  he  sturdily  rejoined 
that  the  gentleman  must  look  out  for 
somebody  else,  as  he  did  think  he  might 
have  done  at  first. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


177 


“ He  has  no  right  to  think  that  I ’d 
be  led  away  to  go  to  him,  sir,”  said 
Kit,  turning  round  again  after  half  a 
minute’s  hammering.  “ Does  he  think 
I ’m  a fool  ? ” 

“ He  may,  perhaps,  Christopher,  if 
you  refuse  his  offer,”  said  Mr.  Garland, 
gravely. 

“Then  let  him,  sir,”  retorted  Kit ; 
“what  do  I care,  sir,  what  he  thinks? 
why  should  I care  for  his  thinking,  sir, 
when  I know  that  I should  be  a fool, 
and  worse  than  a fool,  sir,  to  leave  the 
kindest  master  and  mistress  that  ever 
was  or  can  be,  who  took  me  out  of  the 
streets  a very  poor  and  hungry  lad  in- 
deed, — poorer  and  hungrier  perhaps 
than  ever  you  think  for,  sir,  — to  go  to 
him  or  anybody?  If  Miss  Nell  was  to 
come  back,  ma’am,”  added  Kit,  turn- 
ing suddenly  to  his  mistress,  “why,  that 
would  be  another  thing,  and  perhaps  if 
she  wanted  me,  I might  ask  you  now 
and  then  to  let  me  work  for  her  when 
all  was  done  at  home.  But  when  she 
comes  back,  I see  now  that  she  ’ll  be 
rich  as  old  master  always  said  she  would, 
and  being  a rich  young  lady,  what 
could  she  want  of  me?  No,  no,”  add- 
ed Kit,  shaking  his  head  sorrowfully, 
“she  ’ll  never  want  me  any  more,  and, 
bless  her,  I hope  she  never  may,  though 
I should  like  to  see  her,  too  ! ” 

Here  Kit  drove  a nail  into  the  wall 
very  hard,  — much  harder  than  was 
necessary,  — and,  having  done  so,  faced 
about  again. 

“ There ’s  the  pony,  sir,”  said  Kit,  — 
“Whisker,  ma’am,  (and  he  knows  so 
well  I ’m  talking  about  him  that  he  be- 
gins to  neigh  directly,  sir,)  — would  he 
let  anybody  come  near  him  but  me, 
ma’am  ? Here ’s  the  garden,  sir,  and 
Mr.  Abel,  ma’am.  Would  Mr.  Abel 
part  with  me,  sir,  or*is  there  anybody 
that  could  be  fonder  of  the  garden, 
ma’am?  It  would  break  mother’s 
heart,  sir,  and  even  little  Jacob  would 
have  sense  enough  to  cry  his  eyes  out, 
ma’am,  if  he  thought  that  Mr.  Abel 
could  wish  to  part  with  me  so  soon,  af- 
ter having  told  me,  only  the  other  day, 
that  he  hoped  we  might  be  together  for 
years  to  come  — ” 

There  is  no  telling  how  long  Kit 
might  have  stood  upon  the  ladder,  ad- 


dressing his  master  and  mistress  by 
turns,  and  generally  turning  towards 
the  wrong  person,  if  Barbara  had  not 
at  that  moment  come  running  up  to  say 
that  a messenger  from  the  office  had 
brought  a note,  which,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  some  surprise  at  Kit’s  oratori- 
cal appearance,  she  put  into  her  mas- 
ter’s hand. 

“O,”  said  the  old  gentleman  after 
reading  it,  “ ask  the  messenger  to  walk 
this  way.”  Barbara  tripping  off  to  do 
as  she  was  bid,  he  turned  to  Kit  and 
said  that  they  would  not  pursue  the 
subject  any  further,  and  that  Kit  could 
not  be  more  unwilling  to  part  with 
them  than  they  would  be  to  part  with 
Kit, — a sentiment  which  the  old  lady 
very  generously  echoed. 

“ At  the  same  time,  Christopher,” 
added  Mr.  Garland,  glancing  at  the 
note  in  his  hand,  “ if  the  gentleman 
should  want  to  borrow  you  now  and 
then  for  an  hour  or  so,  or  even  a day  or 
so,  at  a time,  we  must  consent  to  lend  „ 
you,  and  you  must  consent  to  be  lent.  — 

O,  here  is  the  young  gentleman.  How 
do  you  do,  sir  ? ” 

This  salutation  was  addressed  to  Mr. 
Chuckster,  who,  with  his  hat  extremely 
on  one  side,  and  his  hair  a long  way  be- 
yond it,  came  swaggering  up  the  walk. 

“ Hope  I see  you  well,  sir,”  returned 
that  gentleman.  “ Hope  I seeyou  well, 
ma’am.  Charming  box  this,  sir.  De- 
licious country  to  be  sure.” 

“You  want  to  take  Kit  back  with 
you,  I find?  ” observed  Mr.  Garland. 

“ I ’ve  got  a chariot-cab  waiting  on 
purpose,”  replied  the  clerk.  “ A very 
spanking  gray  in  that  cab,  sir,  if  you  ’re 
a judge  of  horse-flesh.” 

Declining  to  inspect  the  spanking 
gray,  on  the  plea  that  he  was  but  poor- 
ly acquainted  with  such  matters,  and 
would  but  imperfectly  appreciate  his 
beauties,  Mr.  Garland  invited  Mr. 
Chuckster  to  partake  of  a slight  repast 
in  the  way  of  lunch.  That  gentleman 
readily  consenting,  certain  cold  viands, 
flanked  with  ale  and  wine,  were  speedi- 
ly prepared  for  his  refreshment.  At  this 
repast  Mr.  Chuckster  exerted  his  ut- 
most abilities  to  enchant  his  entertain- 
ers, and  impress  them  with  a convic- 
tion of  the  mental  superiority  of  those 


12 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


178 

who  dwelt  in  town  ; with  which  view  he 
led  the  discourse  to  the  small  scandal 
of  the  day,  in  which  he  was  justly  con- 
sidered by  his  friends  to  shine  prodig- 
iously. Thus,  he  was  in  a condition  to 
relate  the  exact  circumstances  of  the 
difference  between  the  Marquis  of  Miz- 
zler  and  Lord  Bobby,  which  it  appeared 
originated  in  a disputed  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne, and  not  in  a pigeon-pie,  as  er- 
roneously reported  in  the  newspapers  ; 
neither  had  Lord  Bobby  said  to  the 
Marquis  of  Mizzler,  “ Mizzler,  one  of 
us  two  tells  a lie,  and  I ’m  not  the  man,” 
as  incorrectly  stated  by  the  same  au- 
thorities ; but,  “Mizzler,  you  know 
tvhere  I ’m  to  be  found,  and,  damme, 
sir,  find  me  if  you  want  me,”  — which, 
of  course,  entirely  changed  the  aspect 
of  this  interesting  question,  and  placed 
it  in  a very  different  light.  He  also  ac- 
quainted them  with  the  precise  amount 
of  the  income  guaranteed  by  the  Duke 
of  Thigsberry  to  Violetta  Stetta  of  the 
Italian  Opera,  which  it  appeared  was 
payable  quarterly,  and  not  half-yearly, 
as  the  public  had  been  given  to  under- 
stand, and  which  wras  prelusive,  and 
not  zVzclusive  (as  had  been  monstrously 
stated)  of  jewelry,  perfumery,  hair-pow- 
der for  five  footmen,  and  two  daily 
changes  of  kid  gloves  for  a page.  Hav- 
ing entreated  the  old  lady  and  gentle- 
man to  set  their  minds  at  rest  on  these 
absorbing  points,  for  they  might  rely  on 
his  statement  being  the  correct  one, 
Mr.  Chuckster  entertained  them  with 
theatrical  chitchat  and  the  court  circu- 
lar ; and  so  wound  up  a brilliant  and 
fascinating  conversation  which  he  had 
maintained  alone,  and  without  any  as- 
sistance whatever,  for  upwards  of  three 
quarters  of  an  hour. 

“And  now  that  the  nag  has  got  his 
wind  again,”  said  Mr.  Chuckster,  rising 
in  a graceful  manner,  “I’m  afraid  I 
must  cut  my  stick.” 

Neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Garland  offered 
any  opposition  to  his  tearing  himself 
away,  (feeling,  no  doubt,  that  such  a 
man  could  ill  be  spared  from  his  proper 
sphere  of  action,)  and  therefore  Mr. 
Chuckster  and  Kit  were  shortly  after- 
wards upon  their  way  to  town  ; Kit  be- 
ing perched  upon  the  box  of  the  cabrio- 
let beside  the  driver,  and  Mr.  Chuckster 


seated  in  solitary  state  inside,  with  one 
of  his  boots  sticking  out  at  each  of  the 
front  windows. 

When  they  reached  the  notary’s 
house,  Kit  followed  into  the  office,  and 
was  desired  by  Mr.  Abel  to  sit  down 
and  wait,  for  the  gentleman  who  wanted 
him  had  gone  out,  and  perhaps  might 
not  return  for  some  time.  This  antici- 
pation was  strictly  verified,  for  Kit  had 
had  his  dinner,  and  his  tea,  and  had 
read  all  the  lighter  matter  in  the  Law- 
List,  and  the  Post-Office  Directory,  and 
had  fallen  asleep  a great  many  times, 
before  the  gentleman  whom  he  had  seen 
before  came  in  ; which  he  did  at  last  in 
a very  great  hurry. 

He  was  closeted  with  Mr.  Witherden 
for  some  little  time,  and  Mr.  Abel  had 
been  called  in  to  assist  at  the  confer- 
ence, before  Kit,  wondering  very  much 
what  he  was  wanted  for,  was  summoned 
to  attend  them. 

“Christopher,”  said  the  gentleman, 
turning  to  him  directly  he  entered  the 
room,  “ I have  found  your  old  master 
and  young  mistress.” 

“ No,  sir  ! Have  you,  though  ? ” re- 
turned Kit,  his  eyes  sparkling  with 
delight.  “ Where  are  they,  sir?  How 
are  they,  sir  ? Are  they  — are  they 
near  here  ? ” 

“ A long  way  from  here,”  returned  the 
gentleman,  shaking  his  head.  “ But  I 
am  going  away  to-night  to  bring  them 
back,  and  I want  you  to  go  with  me.” 
“ Me,  sir?”  cried  Kit,  full  of  joy  and 
surprise. 

“ The  place,”  said  the  strange  gentle- 
man, turning  thoughtfully  to  the  notary, 
“indicated  by  this  man  of  the  dogs,  is  — 
how  far  from  here,  — sixty  miles  ? ” 

“ From  sixty  to  seventy.” 

“ Humph  ! If  we  travel  post  all  night, 
we  shall  reach  tliere  in  good  time  to- 
morrow morning.  Now,  the  only  ques- 
tion is,  — as  they  will  not  know  me,  and 
the  child,  God  bless  her,  would  think 
that  any  stranger  pursuing  them  had 
a design  upon  her  grandfather’s  liber- 
ty,— can  I do  better  than  take  this  lad, 
whom  they  both  know  and  will  readh 
ly  remember,  as  an  assurance  to  them 
of  my  friendly  intentions?” 

“ Certainly  not,”  replied  the  notary. 
“ Take  Christopher  by  all  means.” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


179 


“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  said  Kit, 
who  had  listened  to  this  discourse  with  a 
lengthening  countenance,  “ but  if  that ’s 
the  reason,  I ’m  afraid  I should  do  more 
harm  than  good.  Miss  Nell,  sir,  she 
knows  me,  and  would  trust  in  me,  I am 
sure;  but  old  master — I don’t  know 
why,  gentlemen;  nobody  does — would 
not  bear  me  in  his  sight  after  he  had  been 
ill,  and  Miss  Nell  herself  told  me  that  I 
must  not  go  near  him  or  let  him  see  me 
any  more.  I should  spoil  all  that  you 
were  doing  if  I went,  I ’m  afraid.  I ’d 
give  the  world  to  go,  but  you  had  bet- 
ter not  take  me,  sir.” 

“Another  difficulty!”  cried  the  im- 
etuous  gentleman.  “Was  ever  man  so 
eset  as  I ? Is  there  nobody  else  that 
knew  them,  nobody  else  in  whom  they 
had  any  confidence?  Solitary  as  their 
lives  were,  is  there  no  one  person  who 
would  serve  my  purpose?” 

“/j  there,  Christopher?”  said  the 
notary. 

“Not  one,  sir,”  replied  Kit.  “Yes, 
though,  — there ’s  my  mother.” 

“Did  they  know  her?”  said  the  sin- 
gle gentleman. 

“ Know  her,  sir  ! why,  she  was  al- 
ways coming  backwards  and  forwards. 
They  were  as  kind  to  her  as  they 
were  to  me.  Bless  you,  sir,  she  ex- 
pected they ’d  come  back  to  her  house.” 
“ Then  where  the  devil  is  the  wo- 
man?” said  the  impatient  gentleman, 
catching  up  his  hat.  “Why  isn’t  she 
here  ? Why  is  that  woman  always  out 
of  the  way  when  she  is  most  wanted?” 
In  a word,  the  single  gentleman  was 
bursting  out  of  the  office,  bent  upon  lay- 
ing violent  hands  on  Kit’s  mother,  for- 
cing her  into  a post-chaise,  and  carrying 
her  off,  when  this  novel  kind  of  abduc- 
tion was  with  some  difficulty  prevented 
by  the  joint  efforts  of  Mr.  Abel  and  the 
notary,  who  restrained  him  by  dint  of 
their  remonstrances,  and  persuaded  him 
to  sound  Kit  upon  the  probability  of  her 
being  able  and  willing  to  undertake  such 
a journey  on  so  short  a notice. 

This  occasioned  some  doubts  on  the 
part  of  Kit,  and  some  violent  demon- 
strations on  that  of  the  single  gentle- 
man, and  a great  many  soothing  speech- 
es on  that  of  the  notary  and  Mr.  Abel. 
The  upshot  of  the  business  was,  that  Kit, 


after  weighing  the  matter  in  his  mind  and 
considering  it  carefully,  promised  on  be- 
half of  his  mother,  that  she  should  be 
ready  within  two  hours  from  that  time 
to  undertake  the  expedition,  and  en- 
gaged to  produce  her  in  that  place,  in 
all  respects  equipped  and  prepared  for 
the  journey,  before  the  specified  period 
had  expired. 

Having  given  this  pledge,  which  was 
rather  a bold  one,  and  not  particularly 
easy  of  redemption,  Kit  lost  no  time 
in  sallying  forth  and  taking  measures 
for  its  immediate  fulfilment. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

Kit  made  his  way  through  the  crowd- 
ed streets,  dividing  the  stream  of  peo- 
ple, dashing  across  the  busy  road-ways, 
diving  into  lanes  and  alleys,  and  stop- 
ping or  turning  aside  for  nothing,  until 
he  came  in  front  of  the  Old  Curiosity 
Shop,  when  he  came  to  a stand,  partly 
from  habit  and  partly  from  being  out  of 
breath. 

It  was  a gloomy  autumn  evening,  and 
he  thought  the  old  place  had  never 
looked  so  dismal  as  in  its  dreary  twi- 
light. The  windows  broken,  the  rusty 
sashes  rattling  in  their  frames,  the  de- 
serted house  a dull  barrier  dividing  the 
glaring  lights  and  bustle  of  the  street 
into  two  long  lines,  and  standing  in  the 
midst  cold,  dark,  and  empty,  — present- 
ed a cheerless  spectacle  which  mingled 
harshly  with  the  bright  prospects  the 
boy  had  been  building  up  for  its  late  in- 
mates, and  came  like  a disappointment 
or  misfortune.  Kit  would  have  had  a 
good  fire  roaring  up  the  empty  chim- 
neys, lights  sparkling  and  shining 
through  the  windows,  people  moving 
briskly  to  and  fro,  voices  in  cheerful 
conversation,  something  in  unison  with 
the  new  hopes  that  were  astir.  He  had 
not  expected  that  the  house  would  wear 
any  different  aspect, — had  known  in- 
deed that  it  could  not, — but  coming 
upon  it  in  the  midst  of  eage’*  ^..oughts 
and  expectations,  it  checked  the  cur- 
rent in  its  flow,  and  darkened  it  with  a 
mournful  shadow. 

Kit,  however,  fortunately  for  himself, 


i8o 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


was  not  learned  enough  or  contempla- 
tive enough  to  be  troubled  with  pres- 
ages of  evil  afar  off,  and,  having  no 
mental  spectacles  to  assist  his  vision  in 
this  respect,  saw  nothing  but  the  dull 
house,  which  jarred  uncomfortably  up- 
on his  previous  thoughts.  So,  almost 
wishing  that  he  had  not  passed  it, 
though  hardly  knowing  why,  he  hurried 
on  again,  making  up  by  his  increased 
speed  for  the  few  moments  he  had  lost. 

“ Now,  if  she  should  be  out,”  thought 
Kit,  as  he  approached  the  poor  dwell- 
ing of  his  mother,  “ and  I not  able 
to  find  her,  this  impatient  gentleman 
would  be  iri  a pretty  taking.  And  sure 
enough  there ’s  no  light,  and  the  door ’s 
fast.  Now,  God  forgive  me  for  saying 
so,  but  if  this  is  Little  Bethel’s  doing. 
I wish  Little  Bethel  was — was  farther 
off,”  said  Kit,  checking  himself,  and 
knocking  at  the  door. 

A second  knock  brought  no  reply 
from  within  the  house,  but  caused  a 
woman  over  the  way  to  look  out  and 
inquire  who  that  was  a wanting  Mrs. 
Nubbles. 

“Me,”  said  Kit.  “She’s  at — at 
Little  Bethel,  I suppose  ? ” getting  out 
the  name  of  the  obnoxious  conventicle 
with  some  reluctance,  and  laying  a spite- 
ful emphasis  upon  the  words. 

The  neighbor  nodded  assent. 

“ Then  pray  tell  me  where  it  is,”  said 
Kit,  “for  I have  come  on  a pressing 
matter,  and  must  fetch  her  out,  even  if 
she  was  in  the  pulpit.” 

It  was  not  very  easy  to  procure  a 
direction  to  the  fold  in  question,  as 
none  of  the  neighbors  were  of  the  flock 
that  resorted  thither,  and  few  knew  any- 
thing more  of  it  than  the  name.  At  last, 
a gossip  of  Mrs.  Nubbles’s,  who  had  ac- 
companied her  to  chapel  on  one  or  two 
occasions  when  a comfortable  cup  of  tea 
had  preceded  her  devotions,  furnished 
the  needful  information,  which  Kit  had 
no  sooner  obtained  than  he  started  off 
again. 

Little  Bethel  might  have  been  nearer, 
and  might  have  been  in  a straighter 
road,  though  in  that  case  the  reverend 
gentleman  who  presided  over  its  congre- 
gation would  have  lost  his  favorite  allu- 
sion to  the  crooked  ways  by  which  it 
was  approached,  and  which  enabled 


him  to  liken  it  to  Paradise  itself,  in  con- 
tradistinction to  the  parish  church  and 
the  broad  thoroughfare  leading  there- 
unto. Kit  found  it,  at  last,  after  some 
trouble,  and  pausing  at  the  door  to  take 
breath,  that  he  might  enter  with  becom- 
ing decency,  passed  into  the  chapel. 

It  was  not  badly  named  in  one  respect, 
being  in  truth  a particularly  little  Beth- 
el,— a Bethel  of  the  smallest  dimen- 
sions,— with  a small  number  of  small 
pews,  and  a small  pulpit,  in  which  a 
small  gentleman  (by  trade  a Shoemaker, 
and  by  calling  a Divine)  was  delivering 
in  a by  no  means  small  voice  a by  no 
means  small  sermon,  judging  of  its  di- 
mensions by  the  condition  of  his  audi- 
ence, which,  if  their  gross  amount  were 
but  small,  comprised  a still  smaller 
number  of  hearers,  as  the  majority  were 
slumbering. 

Among  these  was  Kit’s  mother,  who, 
finding  it  matter  of  extreme  difficulty 
to  keep  her  eyes  open  after  the  fatigues 
of  last  night,  and  feeling  their  inclina- 
tion to  close  strongly  backed  and  sec- 
onded by  the  arguments  of  the  preacher, 
had  yielded  to  the  drowsiness  that  over- 
powered her,  and  fallen  asleep  ; though 
not  so  soundly  but  that  she  could,  from 
time  to  time,  utter  a slight  and  almost 
inaudible  groan,  as  if  in  recognition  of 
the  orator’s  doctrines.  The  baby  in 
her  arms  was  as  fast  asleep  as  she  ; and 
little  Jacob,  whose  youth  prevented  him 
from  recognizing  in  this  prolonged  spir- 
itual nourishment  anything  half  as  in- 
teresting as  oysters,  was  alternately  very 
fast  asleep  and  very  wide  awake,  as  his 
inclination  to  slumber,  or  his  tenor  of 
being  personally  alluded  to  in  the  dis- 
course, gained  the  mastery  over  him. 

“And  now  I ’m  here,”  thought  Kit, 
gliding  into  the  nearest  empty  pew 
which  was  opposite  his  mother’s,  and  on 
the  other  side  of  the  little  aisle,  “ how  am 
I ever  to  get  at  her,  or  persuade  her  to 
come  out?  I might  as  well  be  twenty 
miles  off.  She  ’ll  never  wake  till  it ’s 
all  over,  and  there  goes  the  clock  again  ! 
If  he  would  but  leave  off  for  a minute, 
or  if  they ’d  only  sing  ! ” 

But  there  was  little  encouragement  to 
believe  that  either  event  would  happen 
for  a couple  of  hours  to  come.  The 
preacher  went  on  telling  them  what  he 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


i8i 


meant  to  convince  them  of  before  he 
had  done,  and  it  was  clear  that  if  he 
only  kept  to  one  half  of  his  promises 
and  forgot  the  other,  he  was  good  for 
that  time  at  least. 

In  his  desperation  and  restlessness 
Kit  cast  his  eyes  about  the  chapel,  and, 
happening  to  let  them  fall  upon  a little 
seat  in  front  of  the  clerk’s  desk,  could 
scarcely  believe  them  when  they  showed 
him — Quilp  ! 

He  rubbed  them  twice  or  thrice,  but 
still  they  insisted  that  Quilp  was  there, 
and  there  indeed  he  was,  sitting  with 
his  hands  upon  his  knees,  and  his  hat 
between  them,  on  a little  wooden  brack- 
et, with  the  accustomed  grin  on  his 
dirty  face,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ceiling.  He  certainly  did  not  glance  at 
Kit  or  at  his  mother,  and  appeared 
utterly  unconscious  of  their  presence ; 
still,  Kit  could  not  help  feeling,  directly, 
that  the  attention  of  the  sly  little  fiend 
was  fastened  upon  them  and  upon 
nothing  else. 

But,  astounded  as  he  was  by  the  ap- 
parition of  the  dwarf  among  the  Little 
Bethelites,  and  not  free  from  a misgiv- 
ing that  it  was  the  forerunner  of  some 
trouble  or  annoyance,  he  was  compelled 
to  subdue  his  wonder  and  to  take  active 
measures  for  the  withdrawal  of  his  par- 
ent, as  the  evening  was  now  creeping 
on,  and  the  matter  grew  serious.  There- 
fore, the  next  time  little  Jacob  woke, 
Kit  set  himself  to  attract  his  wandering 
attention,  and  this  not  being  a very 
difficult  task  (one  sneeze  effected  it),  he 
signed  to  him  to  rouse  his  mother. 

Ill-luck  would  have  it,  however,  that, 
just  then,  the  preacher,  in  a forcible 
exposition  of  one  head  of  his  discourse, 
leaned  over  upon  the  pulpit-desk,  so 
that  very  little  more  of  him  than  his 
legs  remained  inside  ; and,  while  lie 
made  vehement  gestures  with  his  right 
hand,  and  held  on  with  his  left,  stared, 
or  seemed  to  stare,  straight  into  little 
Jacob’s  eyes,  threatening  him  by  his 
strained  look  and  attitude,  — so  it  ap- 
peared to  the  child,  — that  if  he  so  much 
as  moved  a muscle,  he,  the  preacher, 
would  be  literally,  and  not  figuratively, 
“ down  upon  him  ” that  instant.  In 
this  fearful  state  of  things,  distracted  by 
the  sudden  appearance  of  Kit  and  fas- 


cinated by  the  eyes  of  the  preacher,  the 
miserable  Jacob  sat  bolt  upright,  wholly 
incapable  of  motion,  strongly  disposed 
to  cry,  but  afraid  to  do  so,  and  returning 
his  pastor’s  gaze  until  his  infant  eyes 
seemed  starting  from  their  sockets. 

“ If  I must  do  it  openly,  I must,” 
thought  Kit.  With  that,  he  walked 
softly  out  of  his  pew  and  into  his  moth- 
er’s, and,  as  Mr.  Swiveller  would  have 
observed  if  he  had  been  present,  “col- 
lared” the  babywithoutspeakingaword. 

“ Hush,  mother  ! ” whispered  Kit. 
“ Come  along  with  me,  I ’ve  got  some- 
thing to  tell  you.” 

“ Where  am  I ?”  said  Mrs.  Nubbles. 

“ In  this  blessed  Little  Bethel,”  re- 
turned her  son,  peevishly. 

“ Blessed  indeed!”  cried  Mrs.  Nub- 
bles, catching  at  the  word.  “ O Chris- 
topher, how  have  I been  edified  this 
night  ! ” 

“Yes,  yes,  I know,”  said  Kit,  hastily  ; 
“but  come  along,  mother,  everybody ’s 
looking  at  us.  Don’t  make  a noise  — 
bring  Jacob  — that ’s  right  ! ” 

“ Stay,  Satan,  stay ! ” cried  the 
preacher,  as  Kit  was  moving  off. 

“The  gentleman  says  you  ’re  to  stay, 
Christopher,”  whispered  his  mother. 

“Stay,  Satan,  stay!”  roared  the 
preacher  again.  “Tempt  not  the  wo- 
man that  doth  incline  her  ear  to  thee, 
but  hearken  to  the  voice  of  him  that 
calleth.  He  hath  a lamb  from  the  fold  ! ” 
cried  the  preacher,  raising  his  voice  still 
higher  and  pointing  to  the  baby.  “ He 
beareth  off  a Jamb,  a precious  lamb  ! 
He  goeth  about,  like  a wolf  in  the 
night  season,  and  inveigleth  the  tender 
lambs ! ” 

Kit  was  the  best-tempered  fellow  in 
the  world,  but  considering  this  strong 
language,  and  being  somewhat  excited 
by  the  circumstances  in  which  he  was 
placed,  he  faced  round  to  the  pulpit 
with  the  baby  in  his  arms,  and  replied 
aloud,  — 

“ No,  I don’t.  He ’s  my  brother.” 

“ He  ’s  my  brother  ! ” cried  the 
preacher. 

“ He  is  n’t,”  said  Kit,  indignantly. 
“How  can  you  say  such  a thing?  — 
and  don’t  call  me  names  if  you  please  ; 
what  harm  have  I done  ? I should  n’t 
have  come  to  take  ’em  away  unless  I 


182 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


was  obliged,  you  may  depend  upon  that. 
I wanted  to  do  it  very  quiet,  but  you 
would  n’t  let  me.  Now,  you  have  the 
goodness  to  abuse  Satan  and  them  as 
much  as  you  like,  sir,  and  to  let  me 
alone,  if  you  please.” 

So  saying,  Kit  marched  out  of  the 
chapel,  followed  by  his  mother  and  little 
Jacob,  and  found  himself  in  the  open 
air,  with  an  indistinct  recollection  of 
having  seen  the  people  wake  up  and 
look  surprised,  and  of  Quilp  having 
remained,  throughout  the  interruption, 
in  his  old  attitude,  without  moving  his 
eyes  from  the  ceiling,  or  appearing  to 
take  the  smallest  notice  of  anything 
that  passed. 

“O  Kit ! ” said  his  mother,  with  her 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  “what  have 
you  done  ! I never  can  go  there  again, 

— never ! ” 

“I’m  glad  of  it,  mother.  What  was 
there  in  the  little  bit  of  pleasure  you 
took  last  night  that  made  it  necessary 
for  you  to  be  low-spirited  and  sorrow- 
ful to-night  ? That ’s  the  way  you  do. 
If  you  ’re  happy  or  merry  ever,  you 
come  here  to  say,  along  with  that 
chap,  that  you  ’re  sorry  for  it.  More 
shame  for  you,  mother,  I was  going  to 
say.” 

“ Hush,  dear  i ” said  Mrs.  Nubbles  ; 
“ you  don’t  mean  what  you  say,  I know, 
but  you  ’re  talking  sinfulness.” 

“Don’t  mean  it?  But  I do  mean 
it  ! ” retorted  Kit.  “ I don’t  believe, 
mother,  that  harmless  cheerfulness  and 
good-humor  are  thought  greater  sins 
in  heaven  than  shirt-collars  are,  and  I 
do  believe  that  those  chaps  are  just 
about  as  right  and  sensible  in  putting 
down  the  one  as  in  leaving  off  the  other, 

— that ’s  my  belief.  But  I won’t  say 
anything  more  about  it,  if  you  ’ll  prom- 
ise not  to  cry,  that ’s  all ; and  you  take 
the  baby  that  ’s  a lighter  weight,  and 
give  me  little  Jacob  ; and  as  we  go 
along  (which  we  must  do  pretty  quick) 
I ’ll  tell  you  the  news  I bring,  which 
will  surprise  you  a little  I can  tell  you. 
There,  — that ’s  right.  Now  you  look 
as  if  you ’d  never  seen  Little  Bethel  in 
all  your  life,  as  I hope  you  never  will 
again  ; and  here ’s  the  baby  ; and,  lit- 
tle Jacob,  you  get  atop  of  my  back  and 
catch  hold  of  me  tight  round  the  neck. 


and  whenever  a little  Bethel  parson 
calls  you  a precious  lamb  or  says  your 
brother  ’S  one,  you  tell  him  it  ’s  the 
truest  thing  he  *s  said  for  a twelve- 
month,  and  that  if  he  ’d  got  a little 
more  of  the  lamb  himself,  and  less  of 
the  mint-sauce,  — not  being  quite  so 
sharp  and  sour  over  it,  — I should  like 
him  all  the  better.  That ’s  what  you 
’ve  got  to  say  to  him , Jacob  ! ” 

Talking  on  in  this  way,  half  in  jest 
and  half  in  earnest,  and  cheering  up 
his  mother,  the  children,  and  himself, 
by  the  one  simple  process  of  determin- 
ing to  be  in  a good-humor,  Kit  led  them 
briskly  forward  ; and  on  the  road  home 
he  related  what  had  passed  at  the  no- 
tary’s house,  and  the  purpose  with  which 
he  had  intruded  on  the  solemnities  of 
Little  Bethel. 

His  mother  was  not  a little  startled 
on  learning  what  service  was  required 
of  her,  and  presently  fell  into  a confu- 
sion of  ideas,  of  which  the  most  promi- 
nent were  that  it  was  a great  honor  and 
dignity  to  ride  in  a post-chaise,  and  that 
it  was  a moral  impossibility  to  leave 
the  children  behind.  But  this  objection, 
and  a great  many  others,  founded  on 
certain  articles  of  dress  being*  at  the 
wash,  and  certain  other  articles  having 
no  existence  in  the  wardrobe  of  Mrs. 
Nubbles,  were  overcome  by  Kit,  who 
opposed  to  each  and  every  of  them  the 
pleasure  of  recovering  Nell,  and  the 
delight  it  would  be  to  bring  her  back 
in  triumph. 

“ There  ’s  only  ten  minutes  now, 
mother,”  said  Kit  when  they  reached 
home.  “ There ’s  a bandbox.  Throw 
in  what  you  want,  and  • we  ’ll  be  off 
directly.” 

To  tell  how  Kit  then  hustled  into  the 
box  all  sorts  of  things  which  could,  by 
no  remote  contingency,  be  wanted,  and 
how  he  left  out  everything  likely  to  be 
of  the  smallest  use  ; how  a neighbor 
was  persuaded  to  come  and  stop  with 
the  children,  and  how  the  children  at 
first  cried  dismally,  and  then  laughed 
heartily  on  being  promised  all  kinds  of 
impossible  and  unheard-of  toys  ; how 
Kit’s  mother  would  n’t  leave  off  kissing 
them,  and  how  Kit  could  n’t  make  up 
his  mind  to  be  vexed  with  her  for  doing 
it ; would  take  more  time  and  room  than 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


183 


you  and  I can  spare.  So,  passing  over 
all  such  matters,  it  is  sufficient  to  say, 
that,  within  a few  minutes  after  the  two 
hours  had  expired,  Kit  and  his  mother 
arrived  at  the  notary’s  door,  where  a 
post-chaise  was  already  waiting. 

“ With  four  horses,  I declare  ! ” said 
Kit,  quite  aghast  at  the  preparations. 
“ Well,  you  are  going  to  do  it,  mother  ! 
Here  she  is,  sir.  Here ’s  my  mother. 
She ’s  quite  ready,  sir.” 

“ That ’s  well,”  returned  the  gentle- 
man. “ Now,  don’t  be  in  a flutter, 
ma’am  ; you  ’ll  be  taken  great  care  of. 
Where  ’s  the  box  with  the  new  clothing 
and  necessaries  for  them  ? ” 

“ Here  it  is,”  said  the  notary.  “ In 
with  it,  Christopher.” 

“ All  right,  sir,”  replied  Kit.  “Quite 
ready  now,  sir.” 

“ Then  come  along,”  said  the  single 
gentleman.  And  thereupon  he  gave 
his  arm  to  Kit’s  mother,  handed  her 
into  the  carriage  as  politely  as  you 
please,  and  took  his  seat  beside  her. 

Up  went  the  steps,  bang  went  the 
door,  round  whirled  the  wheels,  and  off 
they  rattled,  with  Kit’s  mother  hang- 
ing out  at  one  window,  waving  a damp 
pocket-handkerchief  and  screaming  out 
a great  many  messages  to  little  Jacob 
and  the  baby,  of  which  nobody  heard  a 
word. 

Kit  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
and  looked  after  them  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  — not  brought  there  by  the  de- 
parture he  witnessed,  but  by  the  return 
to  which  he  looked  forward.  “ They 
went  away,”  he  thought,  “ on  foot  with 
nobody  to  speak  to  them  or  say  a kind 
word  at  parting,  and  they  ’ll  come  back, 
drawn  by  four  horses,  with  this  rich 
gentleman  for  their  friend,  and  all  their 
troubles  over  ! She  ’ll  forget  that  she 
taught  me  to  write  — ” 

Whatever  Kit  thought  about,  after 
this,  took  some  time  to  think  of,  for  he 
stood  gazing  up  the  lines  of  shining 
lamps,  long  after  the  chaise  had  disap- 
eared, and  did  not  return  into  the 
ouse  until  the  notary  and  Mr.  Abel, 
who  had  themselves  lingered  outside 
till  the  sound  of  the  wheels  was  no 
longer  distinguishable,  had  several  times 
wondered  what  could  possibly  detain 
him. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

It  behooves  us  to  leave  Kit  for  a 
while,  thoughtful  and  expectant,  and  to 
follow  the  fortunes  of  little  Nell,  resum- 
ing the  thread  of  the  narrative  at  the 
oint  where  it  was  left  some  chapters 
ack. 

In  one  of  those  wanderings  in  the 
evening  time,  when,  following  the  two 
sisters  at  a humble  distance,  she  felt,  in 
her  sympathy  with  them  and  her  recog- 
nition in  their  trials  of  something  akin 
to  her  own  loneliness  of  spirit,  a com- 
fort and  consolation  which  made  such 
moments  a time  of  deep  delight,  though 
the  softened  pleasure  they  yielded  was 
of  that  kind  which  lives  and  dies  in 
tears,  — in  one  of  those  wanderings  at 
the  quiet  hour  of  twilight,  when  sky, 
and  earth,  and  air,  and  rippling  water, 
and  sound  of  distant  bells,  claimed 
kindred  with  the  emotions  of  the  sol- 
itary child,  and  inspired  her  with  sooth- 
ing thoughts,  but  not  of  a child’s  world 
or  its  easy  joys,  — in  one  of  those  ram- 
bles which  had  now  become  her  only 
pleasure  or  relief  from  care,  light  had 
faded  into  darkness  and  evening  deep- 
ened into  night,  and  still  the  young 
creature  lingered  in  the  gloom,  feeling 
a companionship  in  nature,  so  serene 
and  still,  when  noise  of  tongues  and 
glare  of  garish  lights  would  have  been 
solitude  indeed. 

The  sisters  had  gone  home,  and  she 
was  alone.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  the 
bright  stars,  looking  down  so  mildly 
from  the  wide  worlds  of  air,  and,  gazing 
on  them,  found  new  stars  burst  upon 
her  view,  and  more  beyond,  and  more 
beyond  again,  until  the  whole  great 
expanse  sparkled  with  shining  spheres, 
rising  higher  and  higher  in  immeasur- 
able space,  eternal  in  their  numbers 
as  in  their  changeless  and  incorruptible 
existence.  She  bent  over  the  calm  riv- 
er, and  saw  them  shining  in  the  same 
majestic  order  as  when  the  dove  beheld 
them  gleaming  through  the  swollen 
waters  upon  the  mountain-tops  down 
far  below,  and  dead  mankind,  a million 
fathoms  deep. 

The  child  sat  silently  beneath  a tree, 
hushed  in  her  very  breath  by  the  still- 
ness of  the  night,  and  all  its  attendant 


4 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


wonders.  The  time  and  place  awoke 
reflection,  and  she  thought  with  a quiet 
hope  — less  hope,  perhaps,  than  resig- 
nation— on  the  past,  and  present,  and 
what  was  yet  before  her.  Between  the 
old  man  and  herself  there  had  come  a 
gradual  separation,  harder  to  bear  than 
any  former  sorrow.  Every  evening,  and 
often  in  the  daytime  too,  he  was  ab- 
sent, alone  ; and  although  she  well  knew 
where  he  went,  and  why,  — too  well 
from  the  constant  drain  upon  her  scanty 
purse  and  from  his  haggard  looks,  — he 
evaded  all  inquiry,  maintained  a strict 
reserve,  and  even  shunned  her  pres- 
ence. 

She  sat  meditating  sorrowfully  upon 
this  change,  and  mingling  it,  as  it  were, 
with  everything  about  her,  when  the 
distant  church-clock  bell  struck  nine. 
Rising  at  the  sound,  she  retraced  her 
steps,  and  turned  thoughtfully  towards 
the  town. 

She  had  gained  a little  wooden 
bridge,  which,  thrown  across  the 
stream,  led  into  a meadow  in  her  way, 
when  she  came  suddenly  upon  a ruddy 
light,  and,  looking  forward  more  atten- 
tively, discerned  that  it  proceeded  from 
what  appeared  to  be  an  encampment  of 
gypsies,  who  had  made  a fire  in  one 
corner  at  no  great  distance  from  the 
path,  and  were  sitting  or  lying  round  it. 
As  she  was  too  poor  to  have  any  fear 
of  them,  she  did  not  alter  her  course, 
(which,  indeed,  she  could  not  have 
done  without  going  a long  way  round,) 
but  quickened  her  pace  a little,  and 
kept  straight  on. 

A movement  of  timid  curiosity  im- 
pelled her,  when  she  approached  the 
spot,  to  glance  towards  the  fire.  There 
was  a form  between  it  and  her,  the 
outline  strongly  developed  against  the 
light,  which  caused  her  to  stop  abruptly. 
Then,  as  if  she  had  reasoned  with  her- 
self and  were  assured  that  it  could  not 
be,  or  had  satisfied  herself  that  it  was 
not,  that  of  the  person  she  had  sup- 
posed, she  went  on  again. 

But  at  that  instant  the  conversation, 
whatever  it  was,  which  had  been  carry- 
ing on  near  this  fire  was  resumed,  and 
the  tones  of  the  voice  that  spoke  — she 
could  not  distinguish  words  — sounded 
as  familiar  to  her  as  her  own. 


She  turned  and  looked  back.  The 
person  had  been  seated  before,  but  was 
now  in  a standing  posture,  and  leaning 
forward  on  a stick  on  which  he  rested 
both  hands.  The  attitude  was  no  less 
familiar  to  her  than  the  tone  of  voice 
had  been.  It  was  her  grandfather. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  call  to  him  ; 
her  next  to  wonder  who  his  associates 
could  be,  and  for  what  purpose  they 
were  together.  Some  vague  apprehen- 
sion succeeded,  and,  yielding  to  the 
strong  inclination  it  awakened,  she 
drew  nearer  to  the  place ; not  advan- 
cing across  the  open  field,  however,  but 
creeping  towards  it  by  the  hedge. 

In  this  way  she  advanced  within  a 
few  feet  of  the  fire,  and  standing  among 
a few  young  trees,  could  both  see  and 
hear,  without  much  danger  of  being  ob- 
served. 

There  were  no  women  or  children,  as 
she  had  seen  in  other  gypsy  camps  they 
had  passed  in  their  wayfaring,  and  but 
one  gypsy,  — a tall,  athletic  man,  who 
stood  with  his  arms  folded  leaning 
against  a tree  at  a little  distance  off, 
looking  now  at  the  fire,  and  now,  under 
his  black  eyelashes,  at  three  other  men 
who  were  there,  with  a watchful  but 
half-concealed  interest  in  their  conver- 
sation. Of  these,  her  grandfather  was 
one  ; the  others  she  recognized  as  the 
first  card-players  at  the  public-house  on 
the  eventful  night  of  the  storm,  — the 
man  whom  they  had  called  Isaac  List, 
and  his  gruff  companion.  One  of  the 
low,  arched  gypsy-tents,  common  to 
that  people  was  pitched  hard  by,  but  it 
either  was,  or  appeared  to  be,  empty. 

“Well,  are  you  going?”  said  the 
stout  man,  looking  up  from  the  ground 
where  he  was  lying  at  his  ease,  into  her 
grandfather’s  face.  “You  were  in  a 
mighty  hurry  a minute  ago.  Go,  if 
you  like.  You’re  your  own  master,  I 
hope?  ” 

“Don’t  vex  him,”  returned  Isaac 
List,  who  was  squatting  like  a frog  on 
the  other  side  of  the  fire,  and  had  so 
screwed  himself  up  that  he  seemed  to 
be  squinting  all  over  ; “ he  didn’t  mean 
any  offence.” 

“You  keep  me  poor,  and  plunder  me, 
and  make  a sport  and  jest  of  me  be- 
sides,” said  the  old  man,  turning  from 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


one  to  the  other.  “Ye  ’ll  drive  me  mad 
among  ye.” 

The  utter  irresolution  and  feebleness 
of  the  gray-h  aired  child,  contrasted  with 
the  keen  and  cunning  looks  of  those  in 
whose  hands  he  was,  smote  upon  the 
little  listener’s  heart.  But  she  con- 
strained herself  to  attend  to  all  that 
passed  and  to  note  each  look  and  word. 

“ Confound  you,  what  do  you  mean  ? ” 
said  the  stout  man,  rising  a little,  and 
supporting  himself  on  his  elbow.  “ Keep 
you  poor  ! You’d  keep  us  poor,  if  you 
could,  wouldn’t  you?  That’s  the  way 
with  you  whining,  puny,  pitiful  players. 
When  you  lose,  you  ’re  martyrs ; but  I 
don’t  find  that  when  you  win,  you  look 
upon  the  other  losers  in  that  light.  As 
to  plunder  ! ” cried  the  fellow,  raising 
his  voice,  “ damme,  what  do  you  mean 
by  such  ungentlemanly  language  as  plun- 
der, eh  ? ” 

The  speaker  laid  himself  down  again 
at  full  length,  and  gave  one  or  two 
short,  angry  kicks,  as  if  in  further  ex- 
pression of  his  unbounded  indignation. 
It  was  quite  plain  that  he  acted  the 
bully,  and  his.  friend  the  peacemaker, 
for  some  particular  purpose  ; or  rather, 
it  would  have  been  to  any  one  but 
the  weak  -old  man  ; for  they  exchanged 
glances  quite  openly,  both  with  each 
other,  and  with  the  gypsy,  who  grinned 
his  approval  of  the  jest  until  his  white 
teeth  shone  again. 

The  old  man  stood  helplessly  among 
them  for  a little  time,  and  then  said, 
turning  to  his  assailant,  — 

“ You  yourself  were  speaking  of  plun- 
der, just  now,  you  know.  Don’t  be  so 
violent  with  me.  You  were,  were  you 
not  ? ” 

“ Not  of  plundering  among  present 
company  ! Honor  among  — among 
gentlemen,  sir,”  returned  the  other, 
who  seemed  to  have  been  very  near 
giving  an  awkward  termination  to  the 
sentence. 

“Don’t  be  hard  upon  him,  Jowl,” 
said  Isaac  List.  “ He ’s  very  sorry  for 
giving  offence.  There, — go  on  with 
what  you  were  saying, — go  on.” 

“ I ’m  a jolly  old  tender-hearted  lamb, 
I am,”  cried  Mr.  Jowl,  “to  be  sitting 
here  at  my  time  of  life  giving  advice, 
when  I know  it  won’t  be  taken,  and 


185 

that  I shall  get  nothing  but  abuse  for 
my  pains.  But  that ’s  the  way  I ’ve 
gone  through  life.  Experience  has 
never  put  a chill  upon  my  warm-heart- 
edness.” 

“ I tell  you  he ’s  very  sorry,  don’t 
I?”  remonstrated  Isaac  List,  “and 
that  he  wishes  you’d  go  on.” 

“ Does  he  wish  it?  ” said  the  other. 
“Ay,”  groaned  the  old  man,  sitting 
down,  and  rocking  himself  to  and  fro. 
“Go  on,  go  on.  It  ’s  in  vain  to  fight 
with  it;  I can’t  do  it;  go  on.” 

“ I go  on  then,”  said  Jowl,  “where  I 
left  off  when  you  got  up  so  quick.  If 
you  ’re  persuaded  that  it ’s  time  for  luck 
to  turn,  as  it  certainly  is,  and  find  that 
you  haven’t  means  enough  to  try  it, 
(and  that’s  where  it  is,  for  you  know, 
yourself,  that  you  never  have  the  funds 
to  keep  on  long  enough  at  a sitting), 
help  yourself  to  what  seems  put  in  your 
way  on  purpose.  Borrow  it,  I say,  and 
when  you  ’re  able,  pay  it  back  again.” 
“Certainly,”  Isaac  List  struck  in,  “if 
this  good  lady  as  keeps  the  wax-works 
has  money,  and  does  keep  it  in  a tin 
box  when  she  goes  to  bed,  and  doesn’t 
lock  her  door  for  fear  of  fire,  it  seems 
a easy  thing ; quite  a Providence,  I 
should  call  it, — but  then  I’ve  been 
religiously  brought  up.” 

“You  see,  Isaac,”  said  his  friend, 
growing  more  eager,  and  drawing  him- 
self closer  to  the  old  man,  while  he 
signed  to  the  gypsy  not  to  come  be- 
tween them, — “you  see,  Isaac,  stran- 
gers are  going  in  and  out,  every  hour  of 
the  day.  Nothing  would  be  more  like- 
ly than  for  one  of  these  strangers  to  get 
under  the  good  lady’s  bed,  or  lock  him- 
self in  the  cupboard.  Suspicion  would 
be  very  wide,  and  would  fall  a long  way 
from  the  mark,  no  doubt.  I ’d  give  him 
his  revenge  to  the  last  farthing  he 
brought,  whatever  the  amount  was.” 

“ But  could  you  ? ” urged  Isaac  List. 
“Is  your  bank  strong  enough?” 
“Strong  enough!”  answered  the 
other,  with  assumed  disdain.  “ Here, 
you  sir,  give  me  that  box  out  of  the 
straw ! ” 

This  was  addressed  to  the  gypsy,  who 
crawled  into  the  low  tent  on  all  fours, 
and  after  some  rummaging  and  rustling, 
returned  with  a cash-box,  which  the 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


1 86 

man  who  had  spoken  opened  with  a 
key  he  wore  about  his  person. 

“Do  you  see  this?”  he  said,  gather- 
ing up  the  money  in  his  hand,  and  let- 
ting it  drop  back  into  the  box,  between 
his  fingers,  like  water.  “Do  you  hear 
it?  Do  you  know  the  sound  of  gold? 
There,  put  it  back,  — and  don’t  talk 
about  banks  again,  Isaac,  till  you ’ve 
got  one  of  your  own.” 

Isaac  List,  with  great  apparent  hu- 
mility, protested  that  he  had  never 
doubted  the  credit  of  a gentleman  so 
notorious  for  his  honorable  dealing 
as  Mr.  Jowl,  and  that  he  had  hinted  at 
the  production  of  the  box,  not  for  the 
satisfaction  of  his  doubts,  for  he  could 
have  none,  but  with  a view  to  being 
regaled  with  a sight  of  so  much  wealth, 
which,  though  it  might  be  deemed  by 
some  but  an  unsubstantial  and  vision- 
ary pleasure,  was  to  one  in  his  circum- 
stances a source  of  extreme  delight, 
only  to  be  surpassed  by  its  safe  deposi- 
tory in  his  own  personal  pockets.  Al- 
though Mr.  List  and  Mr.  Jowl  ad- 
dressed themselves  to  each  other,  it 
was  remarkable  that  they  both  looked 
narrowly  at  the  old  man,  who,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  up'on  the  fire,  sat  brooding 
over  it,  yet  listening  eagerly  — as  it 
seemed,  from  a certain  involuntary 
motion  of  the  head,  or  twitching  of  the 
face  from  time  to  time  — to  all  they 
said. 

“ My  advice,”  said  Jowl,  lying  down 
again,  with  a careless  air,  “ is  plain,  — 
I have  given  it,  in  fact.  I act  as  a 
friend.  Why  should  I help  a man  to 
the  means  perhaps  of  winning  all  I 
have,  unless  I considered  him  my 
friend?  It’s  foolish,  I dare  say,  to  be 
so  thoughtful  of  the  welfare  of  other 
people,  but  that ’s  my  constitution,  and 
I can’t  help  it;  so  don’t  blame  me, 
Isaac  List.” 

“ / blame  you  ! ” returned  the  person 
addressed.  “Not  for  the  world,  Mr. 
Jowl.  I wish  I could  afford  to  be  as 
liberal  as  you ; and,  as  you  say,  he 
might  pay  it  back  if  he  won,  — and  if 
he  lost — ” 

“ You  ’re  not  to  take  that  into  consid- 
eration at  all,”  said  Jowl.  “ But  sup- 
pose he  did,  (and  nothing ’s  less  likely, 
from  all  I know  of  chances,)  why,  it ’s 


better  to  lose  other  people’s  money  than 
one’s  own,  I hope?” 

“Ah!”  cried  Isaac  List,  rapturous- 
ly, “the  pleasures  of  winning!  The 
delight  of  picking  up  the  money,  — 
the  bright,  shining  yellow-boys,  — and 
sweeping ’em  into  one’s  pocket ! The 
deliciousness  of  having  a triumph  at 
last,  and  thinking  that  one  didn’t  stop 
short  and  turn  back,  but  went  half-way 
to  meet  it  ! The  — But  you  ’re  not 
going,  old  gentleman?” 

“ I ’ll  do  it,”  said  the  old  man,  who 
had  risen  and  taken  two  or  three  hur- 
ried steps  away,  and  now  returned  as 
hurriedly.  “ I ’ll  have  it,  every  pen- 
ny.” 

“Why,  that’s  brave,”  cried  Isaac, 
jumping  up  and  slapping  him  on  the 
shoulder  ; “ and  I respect  you  for  hav- 
ing so  much  young  blood  left.  Ha,  ha, 
ha  ! Joe  Jowl ’s  half  sorry  he  advised 
you  now.  We ’ve  got  the  laugh  against 
him.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ” 

“ He  gives  me  my  revenge,  mind,” 
said  the  old  man,  pointing  to  him  ea- 
gerly with  his  shrivelled  hand ; “ mind, 
— he  stakes  coin  against  coin,  down  to 
the  last  one  in  the  box,  be  there  many 
or  few.  Remember  that ! ” 

“ I ’m  witness,”  returned  Isaac. 
“ I ’ll  see  fair  between  you.” 

“ I have  passed  my  word,”  said  Jowl, 
with  feigned  reluctance,  “ and  I ’ll  keep 
it.  When  does  this  match  come  off? 
I wish  it  was  over.  — To-night  ? ” 

“ I must  have  the  money  first,”  said 
the  old  man;  “and  that  I’ll  have  to- 
morrow— ” 

“ Why  not  to-night  ? ” urged  Jowl. 
“It’s  late  now,  and  I should  be 
flushed  and  flurried,”  said  the  old  man. 
“It  must  be  softly  done.  No,  to-mor- 
row night.” 

“ Then  to-morrow  be  it,”  said  Jowl. 
“A  drop  of  comfort  here.  Luck  to  the 
best  man  ! Fill ! ” 

The  gypsy  produced  three  tin  cups, 
and  filled  them  to  the  brim  with  bran- 
dy. The  old  man  turned  aside  and 
muttered  to  himself  before  he  drank. 
Her  own  name  struck  upon  the  listen- 
er’s ear,  coupled  with  some  wish  so  fer- 
vent that  he  seemed  to  breathe  it  in  an 
agony  of  supplication. 

“ God  be  merciful  to  us  ! ” cried  the 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


child  within  herself,  “and  help  us  in 
this  trying  hour  ! What  shall  I do  to 
save  him  ! ” 

The  remainder  of  their  conversation 
was  carried  on  in  a lower  tone  of  voice, 
and  was  sufficiently  concise;  relating 
merely  to  the  execution  of  the  project, 
and  the  best  precautions  for  diverting 
suspicion.  The  old  man  then  shook 
hands  with  his  tempters  and  withdrew. 

They  watched  his  bowed  and  stoop- 
ing figure  as  it  retreated  slowly,  and 
when  he  turned  his  head  to  look  back, 
which  he  often  did,  waved  their  hands, 
or  shouted  some  brief  encouragement. 
It  was  not  until  they  had  seen  him 
gradually  diminish  into  a mere  speck 
upon  the  distant  road,  that  they  turned 
to  each  other,  and  ventured  to  laugh 
aloud. 

“So,”  said  Jowl,  warming  his  hands 
at  the  fire,  “it’s  done  at  last.  He 
wanted  more  persuading  than  I expect- 
ed. It ’s  three  weeks  ago  since  we  first 
put  this  in  his  head.  What  ’ll  he  bring, 
do  you  think? ” 

“ Whatever  he  brings,  it ’s  halved 
between  us,”  returned  Isaac  List. 

The  other  man  nodded.  “ We  must 
make  quick  work  of  it,”  he  said',  “and 
then  cut  his  acquaintance,  or  we  may  be 
suspected.  Sharp ’s  the  word.” 

List  and  the  gypsy  acquiesced.  When 
they  had  all  three  amused  themselves 
a little  with  their  victim’s  infatuation, 
they  dismissed  the  subject  as  one  which 
had  been  sufficiently  discussed,  and  be- 
gan to  talk  in  a jargon  which  the  child 
did  not  understand.  As  their  discourse 
appeared  to  relate  to  matters  in  which 
they  were  warmly  interested,  however, 
she  deemed  it  the  best  time  for  escap- 
ing unobserved ; and  crept  away  with 
slow  and  cautious  steps,  keeping  in  the 
shadow  of  the  hedges,  or  forcing  a path 
through  them  or  the  dry  ditches,  until 
she  could  emerge  upon  the  road  at  a 
point  beyond  their  range  of  vision. 
Then  she  fled  homewards  as  quickly 
as  she  could,  torn  and  bleeding  from 
the  wounds  of  thorns  and  briers,  but 
more  lacerated  in  mind,  and  threw  her- 
self upon  her  bed,  distracted. 

The  first  idea  that  flashed  upon  her 
mind  was  flight,  instant  flight ; drag- 
ging him  from  that  place,  and  rather 


187 

dying  of  want  upon  the  roadside,  than 
ever  exposing  him  again  to  such  terrible 
temptations.  Then,  she  remembered 
that  the  crime  was  not  to  be  committed 
until  next  night,  and  there  was  the  in- 
termediate time  for  thinking,  and  re- 
solving what  to  do.  Then,  she  was 
distracted  with  a horrible  fear  that  he 
might  be  committing  it  at  that  moment ; 
with  a dread  of  hearing  shrieks  and 
cries  piercing  the  silence  of  the  night ; 
with  fearful  thoughts  of  what  he  might 
be  tempted  and  led  on  to  do,  if  he  were 
detected  in  the  act,  and  had  but  a wo- 
man to  struggle  with.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  bear  such  torture.  She  stole  to 
the  room  where  the  money  was,  opened 
the  door,  and  looked  in.  God  be 
praised  ! He  was  not  there,  and  she 
was  sleeping  soundly. 

She  went  back  to  her  own  room,  and 
tried  to  prepare  herself  for  bed.  But 
who  could  sleep  ? Sleep  ! who  could  lie 
passively  down,  distracted  by  such  ter- 
rors? They  came  upon  her  more  and 
more  strongly  yet.  Half  undressed, 
and  with  her  hair  in  wild  disorder,  she 
flew  to  the  old  man’s  bedside,  clasped 
him  by  the  wrist,  and  roused  him  from 
his  sleep. 

“ What ’s  this  ! ” he  cried,  starting  up 
in  bed,  and  fixing  his  eyes  upon  her 
spectral  face. 

“ I have  had  a dreadful  dream,” 
said  the  child,  with  an  energy  that  noth- 
ing but  such  terrors  could  have  inspired. 
“ A dreadful,  horrible  dream.  I have 
had  it  once  before.  It  is  a dream  of 
gray-haired  men  like  you,  in  darkened 
rooms  by  night,  robbing  the  sleepers  of 
their  gold.  Up,  up!”  The  old  man 
shook  in  every  joint,  and  folded  his 
hands  like  one  who  prays. 

“ Not  to  me,”  said  the  child,  “ not  to 
me,  — to  Heaven,  to  save  us  from  such 
deeds  ! This  dream  is  too  real.  I can- 
not sleep,  I cannot  stay  here,  I cannot 
leave  you  alone  under  the  roof  where 
such  dreams  come.  Up  ! We  must  fly.” 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  she  were  a 
spirit, — she  might  have  been,  for  all 
the  look  of  earth  she  had,  — and  trem- 
bled more  and  more. 

“ There  is  no  time  to  lose ; I will 
not  lose  one  minute,”  said  the  child. 
Up  ! and  away  with  me  ! ” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


1 88 


“ To-night  ? ” murmured  the  old  man. 

“Yes,  to-night,”  replied  the  child. 
“ To-morrow  night  will  be  too  late. 
The  dream  will  have  come  again. 
Nothing  but  flight  can  save  us.  Up  ! ” 

The  old  man  rose  from  his  bed,  — 
his  forehead  bedewed  with  the  cold 
sweat  of  fear,  — and,  bending  before  the 
child  as  if  she  had  been  an  angel  mes- 
senger sent  to  lead  him  where  she 
would,  made  ready  to  follow  her.  She 
took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  on. 
As  they  passed  the  door  of  the  room  he 
had  proposed  to  rob,  she  shuddered 
and  looked  up  into  his  face.  What  a 
white  face  was  that,  and  with  what  a 
look  did  he  meet  hers ! 

She  took  him  to  her  own  chamber, 
and,  still  holding  him  by  the  hand  as  if 
she  feared  to  lose  him  for  an  instant, 
gathered  together  the  little  stock  she 
had,  and  hung  her  basket  on  her  arm. 
The  old  man  took  his  wallet  from  her 
hands  and  strapped  it  on  his  shoulders, 

— his  staff,  too,  she  had  brought  away, 

— and  then  she  led  him  forth. 

Through  the  strait  streets,  and  nar- 
row crooked  outskirts,  their  trembling 
feet  passed  quickly.  Up  the  steep  hill 
too,  crowned  by  the  old  gray  castle, 
they  toiled  with  rapid  steps,  and  had 
not  once  looked  behind. 

But  as  they  drew  nearer  the  ruined 
walls,  the  moon  rose  in  all  her  gentle 
glory,  and,  from  their  venerable  age, 
garlanded  with  ivy,  moss,  and  waving 
grass,  the  child  looked  back  upon  the 
sleeping  town,  deep  in  the  valley’s 
shade,  and  on  the  far-off  river  with  its 
winding  track  of  light,  and  on  the  dis- 
tant hills  ; and  as  she  did  so,  she  clasped 
the  hand  she  held  less  firmly,  and, 
bursting  into  tears,  fell  upon  the  old 
man’s  neck. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Her  momentary  weakness  past,  the 
child  again  summoned  the  resolution 
which  had  until  now  sustained  her,  and, 
endeavoring  to  keep  steadily  in  her  view 
the  one  idea  that  they  were  flying  from 
disgrace  and  crime,  and  that  her  grand- 
father’s preservation  must  depend  sole- 
ly on  her  firmness,  unaided  by  one 


word  of  advice  or  any  helping  hand, 
urged  him  onward  and  looked  back  no 
more. 

While  he,  subdued  and  abashed, 
seemed  to  crouch  before  her,  and  to 
shrink  and  cower  down,  as  if  in  the  pres- 
ence of  some  superior  creature,  the  child 
herself  was  sensible  of  a new  feeling  with- 
in her,  which  elevated  her  nature,  and 
inspired  her  with  an  energy  and  con- 
fidence she  had  never  known.  There 
was  no  divided  responsibility  now  ; the 
whole  burden  of  their  two  lives  had  fall- 
en upon  her,  and  henceforth  she  must 
think  and  act  for  both.  “ I have  saved 
him,”  she  thought.  “ In  all  dangers 
and  distresses,  I will  remember  that.” 

At  any  other  time,  the  recollection  of 
having  deserted  the  friend  who  had 
shown  them  so  much  homely  kindness, 
without  a word  of  justification  — the 
thought  that  they  were  guilty,  in  ap- 
pearance, of  treachery  and  ingratitude 
— even  the  having  parted  from  the  two 
sisters  — w’ould  have  filled  her  with 
sorrow  and  regret.  But  now  all  other 
considerations  were  lost  in  the  new  un- 
certainties and  anxieties  of  their  wild 
and  wandering  life  ; and  the  very  des- 
peration of  their  condition  roused  and 
stimulated  her. 

In  the  pale  moonlight,  which  lent  a 
wanness  of  its  own  to  the  delicate  face 
where  thoughtful  care  already  mingled 
with  the  winning  grace  and  loveliness 
of  youth,  the  too  bright  eye,  the  spirit- 
ual head,  the  lips  that  pressed  each 
other  with  such  high  resolve  and  cour- 
age of  the  heart,  the  slight  figure  firm 
in  its  bearing,  and  yet  so  very  weak,  told 
their  silent  tale  ; but  told  it  only  to  the 
wind  that  rustled  by,  which,  taking  up 
its  burden,  carried,  perhaps  to  some 
mother’s  pillow',  faint  dreams  of  child- 
hood fading  in  its  bloom,  and  resting  in 
the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking. 

The  night  crept  on  apace  ; the  moon 
went  down ; the  stars  grew  pale  and 
dim  ; and  morning,  cold  as  they,  slowly 
approached.  Then,  from  behind  a dis- 
tant hill,  the  noble  sun  rose  up,  driving 
the  mists  in  phantom  shapes  before  it* 
and  clearing  the  earth  of  their  ghostly 
forms  till  darkness  came  again.  When 
it  had  climbed  higher  into  the  sky,  and 
there  was  warmth  in  its  cheerful  beams, 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP.  189 


they  laid  them  down  to  sleep,  upon  a 
bank,  hard  by  some  water. 

But  Nell  retained  her  grasp  upon  the 
old  man’s  arm,  and  long  after  he  was 
slumbering  soundly,  watched  him  with 
untiring  eyes.  Fatigue  stole  over  her 
at  last ; her  grasp  relaxed,  tightened, 
relaxed  again ; and  they  slept  side  by 
side. 

A confused  sound  of  voices,  mingling 
with  her  dreams,  awoke  her.  A man 
of  very  uncouth  and  rough  appearance 
was  standing  over  them,  and  two  of  his 
companions  were  looking  on,  from  a 
long  heavy  boat  which  had  come  close 
to  the  bank  while  they  were  sleeping. 
The  boat  had  neither  oar  nor  sail,  but 
was  towed  by  a couple  of  horses,  who, 
with  the  rope  to  which  they  were  har- 
nessed slack  and  dripping  in  the  water, 
were  resting  on  the  path. 

“ Holloa  ! ” said  the  man,  roughly. 
“What’s  the  matter  here?” 

“We  were  only  asleep,  sir,”  said 
Nell.  “We  have  been  walking  all 
night.” 

“A  pair  of  queer  travellers  to  be 
walking  all  night,”  observed  the  man 
who  had  first  accosted  them.  “ One  of 
you  is  a trifle  too  old  for  that  sort  of 
work,  and  the  other  a trifle  too  young. 
Where  are  you  going?  ” 

Nell  faltered,  and  pointed  at  hazard 
towards  the  west,  upon  which  the  man 
inquired  if  she  meant  a certain  town 
which  he  named.  Nell,  to  avoid  more 
questioning,  said,  “Yes,  that  was  the 
place.” 

“Where  have  you  come  from?”  was 
the  next  question  ; and  this  being  an 
easier  one  to  answer,  Nell  mentioned 
the  name  of  the  village  in  which  their 
friend  the  schoolmaster  dwelt,  as  being 
less  likely  to  be  known  to  the  men  or  to 
provoke  further  inquiry. 

“ I thought  somebody  had  been 
robbing  and  ill-using  you,  might  be,” 
said  the  man.  “ That ’s  all.  Good 
day.” 

Returning  his  salute  and  feeling 
greatly  relieved  by  his  departure,  Nell 
looked  after  him  as  he  mounted  one  of 
the  horses,  and  the  boat  went  on.  It 
had  not  gone  very  far,  when  it  stopped 
again,  and  she  saw  the  men  beckoning 
to  her. 


“ Did  you  call  to  me?  ” said  Nell,  run- 
ning up  to  them. 

“ You  may  go  with  us  if  you  like,”  re- 
plied one  of  those  in  the  boat.  “We  ’re 
going  to  the  same  place.” 

The  child  hesitated  for  a moment. 
Thinking,  as  she  had  thought  with 
great  trepidation  more  than  once  be- 
fore, that  the  men  whom  she  had  seen 
with  her  grandfather  might,  perhaps, 
in  their  eagerness  for  fhe  booty,  follow 
them,  and,  regaining  their  influence 
over  him,  set  hers  at  naught ; and  that, 
if  they  went  with  these  men,  all  traces 
of  them  must  surely  be  lost  at  that 
spot ; determined  to  accept  the  offer. 
The  boat  came  close  to  the  bank  again, 
and  before  she  had  had  any  more  time 
for  consideration,  she  and  her  grandfa- 
ther were  on  board,  and  gliding  smooth- 
ly down  the  canal. 

The  sun  shone  pleasantly  on  the  bright 
water,  which  was  sometimes  shaded  by 
trees,  and  sometimes  open  to  a wide  ex- 
tent of  country,  intersected  by  running 
streams,  and  rich  with  wooded  hills,  cul- 
tivated land,  and  sheltered  farms.  Now 
and  then,  a village  with  its  modest  spire, 
thatched  roofs,  and  gable-ends  would 
peep  out  from  among  the  trees ; and, 
more  than  once,  a distant  town,  with 
great  church-towers  looming  through 
its  smoke,  and  high  factories  or  work- 
shops rising  above  the  mass  of  houses, 
would  come  in  view,  and,  by  the  length 
of  time  it  lingered  in  the  distance, 
show  them  how  slowly  they  trav' 
elled.  Their  way  lay,  for  the  most 
part,  through  the  low  grounds  and 
open  plains ; and  except  these  distant 
places,  and  occasionally  some  men 
working  in  the  fields,  or  lounging  on 
the  bridges  under  which  they  passed,  — 
to  see  them  creep  along,  nothing  en- 
croached on  their  monotonous  and  se- 
cluded track. 

Nell  was  rather  disheartened,  when 
they  stopped  at  a kind  of  wharf  late 
in  the  afternoon,  to  learn  from  one  of 
the  men  that  they  would  not  reach 
their  place  of  destination  until  next 
day,  and  that,  if  she  had  no  provision 
with  her,  she  had  better  buy  it  there. 
She  had  but  a few  pence,  having  al- 
ready bargained  with  them  for  some 
bread,  but  even  of  these  it  was  neces- 


190 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


sary  to  be  very  careful,  as  they  were  on 
their  way  to  an  utterly  strange  place, 
with  no  resource  whatever.  A small 
loaf  and  a morsel  of  cheese,  therefore, 
were  all  she  could  afford,  and  with 
these  she  took  her  place  in  the  boat 
again,  and,  after  half  an  hour’s  delay, 
during  which  the  men  were  drinking 
at  the  public-house,  proceeded  on  the 
journey. 

They  brought*some  beer  and  spirits  in- 
to the  boat  with  them,  and,  what  with 
drinking  freely  before  and  again  now, 
were  soon  in  a fair  way  of  being  quar- 
relsome and  intoxicated.  Avoiding  the 
small  cabin,  therefore,  which  was  very 
dark  and  filthy,  and  to  which  they 
often  invited  both  her  and  her  grandfa- 
ther, Nell  sat  in  the  open  air  with  the 
old  man  by  her  side,  listening  to  their 
boisterous  hosts  with  a palpitating  heart, 
and  almost  wishing  herself  safe  on  shore 
again,  though  she  should  have  to  walk  all 
night. 

They  were,  in  truth,  very  rugged,  noi- 
sy fellows,  and  quite  brutal  among  them- 
selves, though  civil  enough  to  their  two 
assengers.  Thus,  when  a quarrel  arose 
etween  the  man  who  was  steering  and 
his  friend  in  the  cabin,  upon  the  question 
who  had  first  suggested  the  propriety  of 
offering  Nell  some  beer,  and  when  the 
quarrel  led  to  a scuffle  in  which  they 
beat  each  other  fearfully,  to  her  inex- 
pressible terror,  neither  visited  his  dis- 
leasure  upon  her,  but  each  contented 
imself  with  venting  it  on  his  adver- 
sary, on  whom,  in  addition  to  blows, 
he  bestowed  a variety  of  compliments, 
which,  happily  for  the  child,  were  con- 
veyed in  terms  to  her  quite  unintelli- 
gible. The  difference  was  finally  ad- 
justed by  the  man  who  had  come  out 
of  the  cabin  knocking  the  other  into  it 
head-first,  and  taking  the  helm  into  his 
own  hands,  without  evincing  the  least 
discomposure  himself,  or  causing  any 
in  his  friend,  who,  being  of  a tolerably 
strong  constitution  and  perfectly  inured 
to  such  trifles,  went  to  sleep  as  he  was, 
with  his  heels  upwards,  and  in  a couple 
of  minutes  or  so  was  snoring  comforta- 
bly. 

By  this  time  it  was  night  again,  and 
though  the  child  felt  cold,  being  but 
poorly  clad,  her  anxious  thoughts  were 


far  removed  from  her  own  suffering  or 
uneasiness,  and  busily  engaged  in  en- 
deavoring to  devise  some  scheme  for 
their  joint  subsistence.  The  same  spir- 
it w’hich  had  supported  her  on  the  pre- 
vious night  upheld  and  sustained  her 
now.  Her  grandfather  lay  sleeping 
safely  at  her  side,  and  the  crime  to 
which  his  madness  urged  him  was 
not  committed.  That  was  her  comfort. 

How  every  circumstance  of  her  short, 
eventful  life  came  thronging  into  her 
mind,  as  they  travelled  on  ! Slight 
incidents,  never  thought  of,  or  remem- 
bered until  now;  faces  seen  once  and 
ever  since  forgotten  ; words,  scarcely 
heeded  at  the  time  ; scenes  of  a year 
ago  and  those  of  yesterday  mixing  up 
and  linking  themselves  together  ; famil- 
iar places  shaping  themselves  out  in  the 
darkness  from  things  which,  when  ap- 
proached, were,  of  all  others,  the  most 
remote  and  most  unlike  them  ; some- 
times, a strange  confusion  in  her  mind 
relative  to  the  occasion  of  her  being 
there,  and  the  place  to  which  she  was 
going,  and  the  people  she  was  with  ; 
and  imagination  suggesting  remarks  and 
questions  which  sounded  so  plainly  in 
her  ears  that  she  would  start,  and  turn, 
and  be  almost  tempted  to  reply ; — all 
the  fancies  and  contradictions  common 
in  watching  and  excitement  and  restless 
change  of  place,  beset  the  child. 

She  happened,  while  she  was  thus 
engaged,  to  encounter  the  face  of  the 
man  on  deck,  in  whom  the  sentimental 
stage  of  drunkenness  had  now  succeeded 
to  the  boisterous,  and  who,  taking  from 
his  mouth  a short  pipe,  quilted  over 
with  string,  for  its  longer  preservation, 
requested  that  she  would  oblige  him 
with  a song. 

“ You ’ve  got  a very  pretty  voice,  a 
very  soft  eye,  and  a very  strong  mem- 
ory,” said  this  gentleman.  “ The  voice 
and  eye  I ’ve  got  evidence  for,  and  the 
memory ’s  an  opinion  of  my  own  ; and 
I ’m  never  wrong.  Let  me  hear  a song 
this  minute.” 

“ I don’t  think  I know  one,  sir,”  re- 
turned Nell. 

“You  know  forty-seven  songs,”  said 
the  man,  with  a gravity  which  admitted 
of  no  altercation  on  the  subject.  “ Forty- 
seven  ’s  your  number.  Let  me  hear  one 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


of  ’em,  — the  best.  Give  me  a song  this 
minute.” 

Not  knowing  what  might  be  the  con- 
sequences of  irritating  her  friend,  and 
trembling  with  the  fear  of  doing  so,  poor 
Nell  sang  him  some  little  ditty  which 
she  had  learned  in  happier  times,  and 
which  was  so  agreeable  to  his  ear  that, 
on  its  conclusion,  he  in  the  same  peremp- 
tory manner  requested  to  be  favored 
with  another,  to  which  he  was  so  oblig- 
ing as  to  roar  a chorus  to  no  particular 
tune,  and  with  no  words  at  all,  but 
which  amply  made  up  in  its  amazing 
energy  for  its  deficiency  in  other  re- 
spects. The  noise  of  this  vocal  per- 
formance awakened  the  other  man,  who, 
staggering  upon  deck  and  shaking  his 
late  opponent  by  the  hand,  swore  that 
singing  was  his  pride  and  joy  and  chief 
delight,  and  that  he  desired  no  better 
entertainment.  With  a third  call,  more 
imperative  than  either  of  the  two  former, 
Nell  felt  obliged  to  comply,  and  this 
time  a chorus  was  maintained,  not  only 
by  the  two  men  together,  but  also  by 
the  third  man  on  horseback,  who,  being 
by  his  position  debarred  from  a nearer 
participation  in  the  revels  of  the  night, 
roared  when  his  companions  roared, 
and  rent  the  very  air.  In  this  way, 
with  little  cessation,  and  singing  the 
same  songs  again  and  again,  the  tired 
and  exhausted  child  kept  them  in  good- 
humor  all  that  night ; and  many  a cot- 
tager, who  was  roused  from  his  soundest 
sleep  by  the  discordant  chorus  as  it 
floated  away  upon  the  wind,  hid  his 
head  beneath  the  bedclothes  and  trem- 
bled at  the  sounds. 

At  length  the  morning  dawned.  It 
was  no  sooner  light  than  it  began  to 
rain  heavily.  As  the  child  could  not 
endure  the  intolerable  vapors  of  the 
cabin,  they  covered  her,  in  return  for 
her  exertions,  with  some  pieces  of 
sail-cloth  and  ends  of  tarpaulin,  which 
sufficed  to  keep  her  tolerably  dry,  and 
to  shelter  her  grandfather  besides.  As 
the  day  advanced,  the  rain  increased. 
At  noon  it  poured  down  more  hopelessly 
and  heavily  than  ever,  without  the  faint- 
est promise  of  abatement. 

They  had,  for  some  time,  been  grad- 
ually approaching  the  place  for  which 
they  were  bound.  The  water  had  be- 


come thicker  and  dirtier  ; other  barges, 
coming  from  it,  passed  them' frequently ; 
the  paths  of  coal-ash,  and  huts  of  staring 
brick,  marked  the  vicinity  of  some  great 
manufacturing  town  ; while  scattered 
streets  and  houses,  and  smoke  from 
distant  ^furnaces,  indicated  that  they 
were  already  in  the  outskirts.  Now, 
the  clustered  roofs,  and  piles  of  build- 
ings, trembling  with  the  working  of  en- 
gines, and  dimly  resounding  with  their 
shrieks  and  throbbings ; the  tall  chim- 
neys vomiting  forth  a black  vapor,  which 
hung  in  a dense,  ill-favored  cloud  above 
the  house-tops  and  filled  the  air  with 
gloom  ; the  clank  of  hammers  beating 
upon  iron  ; the  roar  of  busy  streets  and 
noisy  crowds,  gradually  augmenting  un- 
til all  the  various  sounds  blended  into 
one  and  none  was  distinguishable  for 
itself,  — announced  the  termination  of 
their  journey. 

The  boat  floated  into  the  wharf  to 
which  it  belonged.  The  men  were 
occupied  directly.  The  child  and  her 
grandfather,  after  waiting  in  vain  to 
thank  them,  or  ask  them  whither  they 
should  go,  passed  through  a dirty  lane 
into  a crowded  street,  and  stood,  amid 
its  din  and  tumult,  and  in  the  pouring 
rain,  as  strange,  bewildered,  and  con- 
fused, as  if  they  had  lived  a thousand 
years  before,  and  were  raised  from  the 
dead  and  placed  there  by  a miracle. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

The  throng  of  people  hurried  by,  in 
two  opposite  streams,  with  no  symptom 
of  cessation  or  exhaustion  ; intent  upon 
their  own  affairs ; and  undisturbed  in 
their  business  speculations  by  the  roar 
of  carts  and  wagons  laden  writh  clashing 
wares,  the  slipping  of  horses’  feet  upon 
the  wet  and  greasy  pavement,  the  rat- 
tling of  the  rain  on  windows  and  um- 
brella-tops, the  jostling  of  the  more 
impatient  passengers,  and  all  the  noise 
and  tumult  of  a crowded  street  in  the 
high  tide  of  its  occupation  ; while  the 
two  poor  strangers,  stunned  and  be- 
wildered by  the  hurry  they  beheld  but 
had  no  part  in,  looked  mournfully  on, 
feeling,  amidst  the  crowd,  a solitude 


192 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


which  has  no  parallel  but  in  the  thirst 
of  the  shipwrecked  mariner,  who,  tost 
to  and  fro  upon  the  billows  of  a mighty 
ocean,  his  eyes  blinded  by  looking 
on  the  water  which  hems  him  in  on 
every  side,  has  not  one  drop  to  cool 
his  burning  tongue. 

They  withdrew  into  a low  archway 
for  shelter  from  the  rain,  and  watched 
the  faces  of  those  who  passed,  to  find 
in  one  among  them  a ray  of  encourage- 
ment or  hope.  Some  frowned,  some 
smiled,  some  muttered  to  themselves, 
some  made  slight  gestures,  as  if  antici- 
pating the  conversation  in  which  they 
would  shortly  be  engaged,  some  wore 
the  cunning  look  of  bargaining  and 
plotting,  some  were  anxious  and  eager, 
some  slow  and  dull ; in  some  counte- 
nances were  written  gain  ; in  others, 
loss.  It  was  like  being  in  the  confi- 
dence of  all  these  people,  to  stand  quiet- 
ly there,  looking  into  their  faces  as  they 
flitted  past.  In  busy  places,  where 
each  man  has  an  object  of  his  own,  and 
feels  assured  that  every  other  man  has 
his,  his  character  and  purpose  are  writ- 
ten broadly  in  his  face.  In  the  public 
walks  and  lounges  of  a town,  people 
go  to  see  and  to  be  seen,  and  there  the 
same  expression,  with  little  variety,  is 
repeated  a hundred  times.  The  work- 
ing-day faces  come  nearer  to  the  truth, 
and  let  it  out  more  plainly. 

Falling  into  that  kind  of  abstraction 
which  such  a solitude  awakens,  the  child 
continued  to  gaze  upon  the  passing  crowd 
with  a wondering  interest,  amounting 
almost  to  a temporary  forgetfulness  of 
her  own  condition.  But  cold,  wet,  hun- 
ger, want  of  rest,  and  lack  of  any  place 
in  which  to  lay  her  aching  head,  soon 
brought  her  thoughts  back  to  the  point 
whence  they  had  strayed.  No  one 
passed  who  seemed  to  notice  them,  or 
to  whom  she  durst  appeal.  After  some 
time,  they  left  their  place  of  refuge 
from  the  weather,  and  mingled  with  the 
concourse. 

Evening  came  on.  They  were  still 
wandering  up  and  down,  with  fewer 
people  about  them,  but  with  the  same 
sense  of  solitude  in  their  own  breasts, 
and  the  same  indifference  from  all 
around.  The  lights  in  the  streets  and 
shops  made  them  feel  yet  more  desolate, 


for,  with  their  help,  night  and  darkness 
seemed  to  come  on  faster.  Shivering 
with  the  cold  and  damp,  ill  in  body,  and 
sick  to  death  at  heart,  the  child  needed 
her  utmost  firmness  and  resolution  even 
to  creep  along. 

Why  had  they  ever  come  to  this  noisy 
town,  when  there  were  peaceful  country 
places,  in  which,  at  least,  they  might 
have  hungered  and  thirsted  with  less 
suffering  than  in  its  squalid  strife  ! 
They  were  but  an  atom,  here,  in  a 
mountain  heap  of  misery,  the  very  sight 
of  which  increased  their  hopelessness 
and  suffering. 

The  child  had  not  only  to  endure  the 
accumulated  hardships  of  their  destitute 
condition,  but  to  bear  the  reproaches  of 
her  grandfather,  who  began  to  murmur 
at  having  been  led  away  from  their  late 
abode,  and  demand  that  they  should 
return  to  it.  Being  now  penniless,  and 
no  relief  or  prospect  of  relief  appearing, 
they  retraced  their  steps  through  the 
deserted  streets,  and  went  back  to  the 
wharf,  hoping  to. find  the  boat  in  which 
they  had  come,  and  to  be  allowed  to 
sleep  on  board  that  night.  But  here 
again  they  were  disappointed,  for  the 
gate  was  closed,  and  some  fierce  dogs, 
barking  at  their  approach,  obliged  them 
to  retreat. 

“We  must  sleep  in  the  open  air  to- 
night, dear,”  said  the  child,  in  a weak 
voice,  as  they  turned  away  from  this  last 
repulse  ; “ and  to-morrow  we  will  beg 
our  way  to  some  quiet  part  of  the  coun- 
try, and  try  to  earn  our  bread  in  very 
humble  work.” 

“ Why  did  you  bring  me  here  ? ” re- 
turned the  old  man,  fiercely.  “ I can- 
not bear  these  close,  eternal  streets.  We 
came  from  a quiet  part.  Why  did  you 
force  me  to  leave  it?” 

“ Because  I must  have  that  dream  I 
told  you  of  no  more,”  said  the  child, 
with  a momentary  firmness  that  lost 
itself  in  tears : “ and  we  must  live 
among  poor  people,  or  it  will  come 
again.  Dear  grandfather,  you  are  old 
and  weak,  I know : but  look  at  me.  I 
never  will  complain,  if  you  will  not,  but 
I have  some  suffering  indeed.” 

“ Ah  ! poor,  houseless,  wandering, 
motherless  child  ! ” cried  the  old  man, 
clasping  his  hands  and  gazing  as  if  foJ 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


i93 


the  first  time  upon  her  anxious  face,  her 
travel-stained  dress,  and  bruised  and 
swollen  feet.  “Has  all  my  agony  of  care 
brought  her  to  this  at  last?  Was  l a 
happy  man  once,  and  have  I lost  happi- 
ness and  all  I had,  for  this  ? ” 

“If  we  were  in  the  country  now,” 
said  the  child,  with  assumed  cheerful- 
ness, as  they  walked  on,  looking  about 
them  for  a shelter,  “we  should  find 
some  good  old  tree,  stretching  out  his 
green  arms  as  if  he  loved  us,  and  nod- 
ding and  rustling  as  if  he  would  have 
us  fall  asleep,  thinking  of  him  while  he 
watched.  Please  God,  we  shall  be 
there  soon,  — to-morrow  or  next  day  at 
^he  farthest,  — and  in  the  mean  time  let 
us  think,  dear,  that  it  was  a good  thing 
we  came  here  ; for  we  are  lost  in  the 
crowd  and  hurry  of  this  place,  and  if 
any  cruel  people  should  pursue  us,  they 
could  surely  never  trace  us  farther. 
There ’s  comfort  in  that.  And  here ’s 
a deep  old  doorway,  — very  dark,  but 
quite  dry,  and  warm  too,  for  the  wind 
don’t  blow  in  here  — What ’s  that  ? ” 

Uttering  a half-shriek,  she  recoiled 
from  a black  figure  which  came  sudden- 
ly out  of  the  dark  recess  in  which  they 
were  about  to  take  refuge,  and  stood 
still  looking  at  them. 

“ Speak  again,”  it  said  ; “do  I know 
the  voice?” 

“ No,”  replied  the  child,  timidly ; “we 
are  strangers,  and,  having  no  money  for 
a night’s  lodging,  were  going  to  rest 
here.” 

There  was  a feeble  lamp  at  no  great 
distance, — the  only  one  in  the  place, 
which  was  a kind  of  square  yard,  but 
sufficient  to  show  how  poor  and  mean 
it  was.  To  this  the  figure  beckoned 
them,  at  the  same  time  drawing  within 
its  rays,  as  if  to  show  that  it  had  no  de- 
sire to  conceal  itself  or  take  them  at  an 
advantage. 

The  form  was  that  of  a man,  misera- 
bly clad  and  begrimed  with  smoke, 
which,  perhaps  by  its  contrast  with  the 
natural  color  of  his  skin,  made  him  look 
paler  than  he  really  was.  That  he  was 
naturally  of  a very  wan  and  pallid  as- 
pect, however,  his  hollow  cheeks,  sharp 
features,  and  sunken  eyes,  no  less  than 
a certain  look  of  patient  endurance,  suf- 
ficiently testified.  His  voice  was  harsh 


by  nature,  but  not  brutal ; and  though 
his  face,  besides  possessing  the  charac- 
teristics already  mentioned,  was  over- 
shadowed by  a quantity  of  long  dark 
hair,  its  expression  was  neither  fero- 
cious nor  bad. 

“ How  came  you  to  think  of  resting 
there  ? ” he  said.  “ Or  how,”  he  added, 
looking  more  attentively  at  the  child, 
“do  you  come  to  want  a place  of  rest 
at  this  time  of  night  ? ” 

“ Our  misfortunes,”  the  grandfather 
answered,  “ are  the  cause.” 

“ Do  you  know,”  said  the  man,  look- 
ing still  more  earnestly  at  Nell,  “ how 
wet  she  is,  and  that  the  damp  streets 
are  not  a place  for  her?  ” 

“ I know  it  well,  God  help  me,”  he 
replied.  “ What  can  I do  ! ” 

The  man  looked  at  Nell  again,  and 
gently  touched  her  garments,  from 
which  the  rain  was  running  off  in  little 
streams.  “ I can  give  you  warmth,” 
he  said,  after  a pause  ; “ nothing  else. 
Such  lodging  as  I have  is  in  that  house,” 
pointing  to  the  doorway  from  which  he 
had  emerged,  “ but  she  is  safer  and 
better  there  than  here.  The  fire  is  in  a 
rough  place,  but  you  can  pass  the  night 
beside  it  safely,  if  you  ’ll  trust  yourselves 
to  me.  You  see  that  red  light  yonder  ? ” 
They  raised  their  eyes,  and  saw  a 
lurid  glare  hanging  in  the  dark  sky  ; 
the  dull  reflection  of  some  distant  fire. 

“ It ’s  not  far,”  said  the  man.  “ Shall 
I take  you  there?  You  were  going  to 
sleep  upon  cold  bricks  ; I can  give  you 
a bed  of  warm  ashes,  — nothing  better.” 
Without  waiting  for  any  further  reply 
than  he  saw  in  their  looks,  he  took  Nell 
in  his  arms,  and  bade  the  old  man  fol- 
low. 

Carrying  her  as  tenderly,  and  as  easily 
too,  as  if  she  had  been  an  infant,  and 
showing  himself  both  swift  and  sure  of 
foot,  he  led  the  way  through  what  ap- 
peared to  be  the  poorest  and  most 
wretched  quarter  of  the  town  ; not 
turning  aside  to  avoid  the  overflowing 
kennels  or  running  water-spouts,  but 
holding  his  course,  regardless  of  such 
obstructions,  and  making  his  way 
straight  through  them.  They  had  pro- 
ceeded thus,  in  silence,  for  some  quar- 
ter of  an  hour,  and  had  lost  sight  of 
the  glare  to  which  he  had  pointed,  in 


13 


194 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


the  dark  and  narrow  ways  by  which 
they  had  come,  when  it  suddenly  burst 
upon  them  again,  streaming  up  from 
the  high  chimney  of  a building  close 
before  them. 

“ This  is  the  place,”  he  said,  paus- 
ing at  a door  to  put  Nell  down  and  take 
her  hand.  “ Don’t  be  afraid.  There ’s 
nobody  here  will  harm  you.” 

It  needed  a strong  confidence  in  this 
assurance  to  induce  them  to  enter,  and 
what  they  saw  inside  did  not  diminish 
their  apprehension  and  alarm.  In  a 
large  and  lofty  building,  supported  by 
pillars  of  iron,  with  great  black  aper- 
tures in  the  upper  walls,  open  to  the 
external  air,  echoing  to  the  roof  with 
the  beating  of  hammers  and  roar  of 
furnaces,  mingled  with  the  hissing  of 
red-hot  metal  plunged  in  water,  and  a 
hundred  strange  unearthly  noises  never 
heard  elsewhere,  — in  this  gloomy  place, 
moving  like  demons  among  the  flame 
and  smoke,  dimly  and  fitfully  seen, 
flushed  and.  tormented  by  the  burning 
fires,  and  wielding  great  weapons,  a 
faulty  blow  from  any  one  of  which  must 
have  crushed  some  workman’s  skull, 
a number  of  men  labored  like  giants. 
Others,  reposing  upon  heaps  of  coals 
or  ashes,  with  their  faces  turned  to  the 
black  vault  above,  slept  or  rested  from 
their  toil.  Others,  again,  opening  the 
white-hot  furnace  doors,  cast  fuel  on  the 
flames  which  came  rushing  and  roaring 
forth  to  meet  it,  and  licked  it  up  like 
oil.  Others  drew  forth,  with  clashing 
noise,  upon  the  ground,  great  sheets  of 
glowing  steel,  emitting  an  insupport- 
able heat,  and  a dull  deep  light  like 
that  which  reddens  in  the  eyes  of 
savage  beasts. 

Through  these  bewildering  sights 
and  deafening  sounds,  their  conductor 
led  them  to  where,  in  a dark  portion 
of  the  building,  one  furnace  burnt  by 
night  and  day,  — so,  at  least,  they  gath- 
ered from  the  motion  of  his  lips,  for  as 
et  they  could  only  see  him  speak,  not 
ear  him.  The  man  who  had  been 
watching  this  fire,  and  whose  task  was 
ended  for  the  present,  gladly  withdrew, 
and  left  them  with  their  friend,  who, 
spreading  Nell’s  little  cloak  upon  a 
heap  of  ashes,  and  showing  her  where 
she  could  hang  her  outer  clothes  to  dry, 


signed  to  her  and  the  old  man  to  lie 
down  and  sleep.  For  himself,  he  took 
his  station  on  a rugged  mat  before  the 
furnace  door,  and,  resting  his  chin  up- 
on his  hands,  watched  the  flame  as  it 
shone  through  the  iron  chinks,  and  the 
white  ashes  as  they  fell  into  their  bright 
hot  grave  below. 

The  warmth  of  her  bed,  hard  and 
humble  as  it  was,  combined  with  the 
great  fatigue  she  had  undergone,  soon 
caused  the  tumult  of  the  place  to  fall 
with  a gentler  sound  upon  the  child’s 
tired  ears,  and  was  not  long  in  lulling 
her  to  sleep.  The  old  man  was  stretched 
beside  her,  and  with  her  hand  upon  his 
neck  she  lay  and  dreamed. 

It  was  yet  night  when  she  awoke,  nor 
did  she  know  how  long,  or  for  how 
short  a time,  she  had  slept.  But  she 
found  herself  protected,  both  from  any 
cold  air  that  might  find  its  way  into  the 
building,  and  from  the  scorching  heat, 
by  some  of  the  workmen’s  clothes  ; and, 
glancing  at  their  friend,  saw  that  he  sat 
in  exactly  the  same  attitude,  looking 
with  a fixed  earnestness  of  attention  to- 
wards the  fire,  and  keeping  so  very  still 
that  he  did  net  even  seem  to  breathe. 
She  lay  in  the  state  between  sleeping 
and  waking,  looking  so  long  at  his  mo- 
tionless figure  that  at  length  she  almost 
feared  he  had  died  as  he  sat  there  ; and, 
softly  rising  and  drawing  close  to  him, 
ventured  to  whisper  in  his  ear. 

He  moved,  and  glancing  from  her  to 
the  place  she  had  lately  occupied,  as  if 
to  assure  himself  that  it  was  really  the 
child  so  near  him,  looked  inquiringly 
into  her  face. 

“ I feared  you  were  ill,”  she  said. 
“ The  other  men  are  all  in  motion,  and 
you  are  so  very  quiet.” 

“They  leave  me  to  myself,”  he  re- 
plied. “ They  know  my  humor.  They 
laugh  at  me,  but  don’t  harm  mean 
it.  See  yonder  there,  — that ’s  my 
friend.” 

“ The  fire  ? ” said  the  child. 

“It  has  been  alive  as  long  as  I have,” 
the  man  made  answer.  “We  talk  and 
think  together  all  night  long.” 

The  child  glanced  quickly  at  him  in 
her  surprise,  but  he  had  turned  his  eyes 
in  their  former  direction,  and  was  mus- 
ing as  before. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


*95 


“ It ’s  like  a book  to  me,”  he  said,  — 
“ the  only  book  I ever  learned  to  read  ; 
and  many  an  old  story  it  tells  me.  It ’s 
music,  for  I should  know  its  voice 
among  a thousand,  and  there  are  other 
voices  in  its  roar.  It  has  its  pictures 
too.  You  don’t  know  how  many  strange 
faces  and  different  scenes  I trace  in  the 
red-hot  coals.  It’s  my  memory,  that 
fire,  and  shows  me  all  my  life.” 

The  child,  bending  down  to  listen  to 
his  words,  could  not  help  remarking 
with  what  brightened  eyes  he  continued 
to  speak  and  muse. 

“Yes,”  he  said,  with  a faint  smile; 
“ it  was  the  same  when  I was  quite  a 
baby,  and  crawled  about  it,  till  I fell 
asleep.  My  father  watched  it  then.” 

“ Had  you  no  mother  ? ” asked  the 
child. 

“No,  she  was  dead.  Women  work 
hard  in  these  parts.  She  worked  her- 
self to  death,  they  told  me,  and,  as  they 
said  so  then,  the  fire  has  gone  on  say- 
ing the  same  thing  ever  since.  I sup- 
pose it  was  true.  I have  always  be- 
lieved it.” 

“ Were  you  brought  up  here,  then,” 
said  the  child. 

“ Summer  and  winter,”  he  replied. 
“ Secretly  at  first ; but  when  they  found 
it  out,  they  let  him  keep  me  here.  So 
the  fire  nursed  me,  — the  same  fire.  It 
has  never  gone  out.” 

“ You  are  fond  of  it  ? ” said  the  child. 

“ Of  course  I am.  He  died  before  it. 
I saw  him  fall  down,  — just  there,  where 
those  ashes  are  burning  now,  — and 
wondered,  I remember,  why  it  didn’t 
help  him.” 

“ Have  you  been  here  ever  since  ? ” 
asked  the  child. 

“ Ever  since  I came  to  watch  it ; but 
there  was  a while  between,  and  a very 
cold  dreary  while  it  was.  It  burnt  all 
the  time,  though,  and  roared  and  leaped 
when  I came  back,  as  it  used  to  do 
in  our  play-days.  You  may  guess, 
from  looking  at  me,  what  kind  of  child 
I was,  but  for  all  the  difference  between 
us  I was  a child,  and  when  I saw  you 
in  the  street  to-night,  you  put  me  in 
m,ind  of  myself,  as  l was  after  he  died, 
and  made  me  wish  to  bring  you  to 
the  fire.  I thought  of  those  old  times 
again,  when  I saw  you  sleeping  by  it. 


You  should  be  sleeping  now.  Lie  down 
again,  poor  child  ; lie  down  again  ! ” 

With  that  he  led  her  to  her  rude 
couch,  and,  covering  her  with  the  clothes 
with  which  she  had  found  herself  envel- 
oped when  she  woke,  returned  to  his 
seat,  whence  he  moved  no  more  unless  to 
feed  the  furnace,  but  remained  motion- 
less as  a statue.  The  child  continued 
to  watch  him  for  a little  time,  but  soon 
yielded  to  the  drowsiness  that  came 
upon  her,  and,  in  the  dark  strange  place 
and  on  the  heap  of  ashes,  slept  as  peace- 
fully as  if  the  room  had  been  a palace 
chamber,  and  the  bed  a bed  of  down. 

When  she  awoke  again,  broad  day 
was  shining  through  the  lofty  openings 
in  the  walls,  and,  stealing  in  slanting 
rays  but  midway  down,  seemed  to  make 
the  building  darker  than  it  had  been 
at  night.  The  clang  and  tumult  were 
still  going  on,  and  the  remorseless  fires 
were  burning  fiercely  as  before  ; for  few 
changes  of  night  and  day  brought  rest 
or  quiet  there. 

Her  friend  parted  his  breakfast  — a 
scanty  mess  of  coffee  and  some  coarse 
bread  — with  the  child  and  her  grand- 
father, and  inquired  whither  they  were 
going.  < She  told  him  that  they  sought 
some  distant  country  place,  remote  from 
towns  or  even  other  villages,  and  with 
a faltering  tongue  inquired  what  road 
they  would  do  best  to  take. 

“ I know  little  of  the  country,”  he 
said,  shaking  his  head,  “for  such  as  I 
pass  all  our  lives  before  our  furnace 
doors,  and  seldom  go  forth  to  breathe. 
But  there  are  such  places  yonder.” 

“And  far  from  here  ?”  said  Nell. 

“Ay,  surely.  How  could  they  be 
near  us,  and  be  green  and  fresh?  The 
road  lies,  too,  through  miles  and  miles, 
all  lighted  up  by  fires  like  ours,  — a 
strange  black  road,  and  one  that  would 
frighten  you  by  night.” 

“We  are  here  and  must  go  on,”  said 
the  child,  boldly  ; for  she  saw  that  the 
old  man  listened  with  anxious  ears  to 
this  account. 

“Rough  people — paths  never  made 
for  little  feet  like  yours  — a dismal, 
blighted  way — is  there  no  turning  back, 
my  child?  ” 

“There  is  none,”  cried  Nell,  press- 
ing forward.  “ If  you  can  direct  us. 


196 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


do.  If  not,  pray  do  not  seek  to  turn 
us  from  our  purpose.  Indeed  you  do 
not  know  the  danger  that  we  shun,  and 
how  right  and  true  we  are  in  flying 
from  it,  or  you  would  not  try  to  stop  us  ; 
I am  sure  you  would  not.” 

“God  forbid,  if  it  is  so  !”  said  their 
uncouth  protector,  glancing  from  the 
eager  child  to  her  grandfather,  who 
hung  his  head  and  bent  his  eyes  upon 
the  ground.  “I  ’ll  direct  you  from  the 
door  the  best  I can.  I wish  I could  do 
more.” 

He  showed  them,  then,  by  which 
road  they  must  leave  the  town,  and 
what  course  they  should  hold  when 
they  had  gained  it.  He  lingered  so 
long  on  these  instructions  that  the 
child,  with  a fervent  blessing,*  tore 
herself  away,  and  stayed  to  hear  no 
more. 

But  before  they  had  reached  the 
corner  of  the  lane,  the  man  came 
running  after  them,  and,  pressing  her 
hand,  left  something  in  it,  — two  old, 
battered,  smoke-incrusted  penny  pieces. 
Who  knows  but  they  shone  as  brightly 
in  the  eyes  of  angels  as  golden  gifts 
that  have  been  chronicled  on  tombs? 

And  thus  they  separated  ; the  child 
to  lead  her  sacred  charge  farther  from 
guilt  and  shame  ; and  the  laborer  to  at- 
tach a fresh  interest  to  the  spot  where 
his  guests  had  slept,  and  read  new 
histories  in  his  furnace  fire. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

In  all  their  journeying,  they  had 
never  longed  so  ardently,  they  had  nev- 
er so  pined  and  wearied,  for  the  freedom 
of  pure  air  and  open  country,  as  now. 
No,  not  even  on  that  memorable  morn- 
ing, when,  deserting  their  old  home, 
they  abandoned  themselves  to  the  mer- 
cies of  a strange  world,  and  left  all  the 
dumb  and  senseless  things  they  had 
known  and  loved  behind,  — not  even 
then  had  they  so  yearned  for  the  fresh 
solitudes  of  wood,  hillside,  and  field 
as  now,  when  the  noise  and  dirt  and 
vapor  of  the  great  manufacturing  town 
reeking  with  lean  misery  and  hungry 
wretchedness,  hemmed  them  in  on  ev- 


ery side,  and  seemed  to  shut  out  hope, 
and  to  render  escape  impossible. 

“Two  days  and  nights!”  thought 
the  child.  “ He  said  two  days  and 
nights  we  should  have  to  spend  among 
such  scenes  as  these.  O,  if  we  live  to 
reach  the  country  once  again,  if  we  get 
clear  of  these  dreadful  places,  though  it 
is  only  to  lie  down  and  die,  with  what 
a grateful  heart  I shall  thank  God  for 
so  much  mercy  ! ” 

With  thoughts  like  this,  and  with 
some  vague  design  of  travelling  to  a 
great  distance  among  streams  and 
mountains,  where  only  very  poor  and 
simple  people  lived,  and  where  they 
might  maintain  themselves  by  very  hum- 
ble helping  work  in  farms,  free  from 
such  terrors  as  that  from  which  they 
fled,  — the  child,  with  no  resource  but 
the  poor  man’s  gift,  and  no  encourage- 
ment but  that  which  flowed  from  her 
own  heart,  and  its  sense  of  the  truth 
and  right  of  what  she  did,  nerved  her- 
self to  this  last  journey  and  boldly  pur- 
sued her  task. 

“We  shall  be  very  slow  to-day, 
dear,”  she  said,  as  they  toiled  painfully 
through  the  streets.  “My  feet  are  sore, 
and  I have  pains  in  all  my  limbs  from 
the  wet  of  yesterday.  I saw  that  he 
looked  at  us  and  thought  of  that  when 
he  said  how  long  we  should  be  upon 
the  road.” 

“It  was  a dreary  way  he  told  us 
of,”  returned  her  grandfather,  piteously. 
“ Is  there  no  other  road  ? Will  you 
not  let  me  go  some  other  way  than 
this?  ” 

“Places  lie  beyond  these,”  said  the 
child,  firmly,  “ where  we  may  live  in 
peace,  and  be  tempted  to  do  no  harm. 
We  will  take  the  road  that  promises  to 
have  that  end,  and  we  would  not  turn 
out  of  it,  if  it  were  a hundred  times 
worse  than  our  fears  lead  us  to  expect. 
We  would  not,  dear,  would  we  ?” 

“ No,”  replied  the  old  man,  waver- 
ing in  his  voice  no  less  than  in  his 
manner.  “No.  Let  us  go  on.  I am 
ready.  I am  quite  ready,  Nell.” 

The  child  walked  with  more  difficulty 
than  she  had  led  her  companion  to  ex- 
pect, for  the  pains  that  racked  her  joints 
were  of  no  common  severity,  and  ev- 
ery exertion  increased  them.  But  they 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


J 97 


wrung  from  her  no  complaint  or  look 
of  suffering ; and  though  the  two  trav- 
ellers proceeded  very  slowly,  they  did 
proceed.  Clearing  the  town  in  course 
of  time,  they  began  to  feel  that  they 
were  fairly  on  their  way.  _ 

A long  suburb  of  red  brick  houses,  — 
some  with  patches  of  garden-ground, 
where  coal-dust  and  factory  smoke 
darkened  the  shrinking  leaves  and 
coarse  rank  flowers,  and  where  the 
struggling  vegetation  sickened  and  sank 
under  the  hot  breath  of  kiln  and  fur- 
nace, making  them  by  its  presence 
seem  yet  more  blighting  and  unwhole- 
some than  in  the  town  itself,  — a long, 
flat,  straggling  suburb  passed,  they 
came,  by  slow  degrees,  upon  a cheerless 
region,  where  not  a blade  of  grass  was 
seen  to  grow,  where  not  a bud  put 
forth  its  promise  in  the  spring,  where 
nothing  green  could  live  but  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  stagnant  pools,  which  here 
and  there  lay  idly  sweltering  by  the 
black  roadside. 

Advancing  more  and  more  into  the 
shadow  of  this  mournful  place,  its  dark 
depressing  influence  stole  upon  their 
spirits,  and  filled  them  with  a dismal 
gloom.  On  every  side,  and  far  as  the 
eye  could  see  into  the  heavy  distance, 
tall  chimneys,  crowding  on  each  other, 
and  presenting  that  endless  repetition 
of  the  same  dull,  ugly  form  which  is 
the  horror  of  oppressive  dreams,  poured 
out  their  plague  of  smoke,  obscured  the 
light,  and  made  foul  the  melancholy 
air.  On  mounds  of  ashes  by  the  way- 
side,  sheltered  only  by  a few  rough 
boards,  or  rotten  pent-house  roofs, 
strange  engines  spun  and  writhed  like 
tortured  creatures,  clanking  their  iron 
chains,  shrieking  in  their  rapid  whirl 
from  time  to  time  as  though  in  torment 
unendurable,  and  making  the  ground 
tremble  with  their  agonies.  Disman- 
tled houses  here  and  there  appeared, 
tottering  to  the  earth,  propped  up  by 
fragments  of  others  that  had  fallen  down, 
unroofed,  windowless,  blackened,  deso- 
late, but  yet  inhabited.  Men,  women, 
children,  wan  in  their  looks  and  ragged 
in  attire,  tended  the  engines,  fed  their 
tributary  fires,  begged  upon  the  road,  or 
scowled  half-naked  from  the  doorless 
houses.  Then  came  more  of  the  wrath- 


ful monsters,  whose  like  they  almost 
seemed  to  be  in  their  wildness  and 
their  untamed  air,  screeching  and  turn- 
ing round  and  round  again  ; and  still, 
before,  behind,  and  to  the  right  and  left, 
was  the  same  interminable  perspective 
of  brick  towers,  never  ceasing  in  their 
black  vomit,  blasting  all  things  living  or 
inanimate,  shutting  out  the  face  of  day, 
and  closing  in  on  all  these  horrors  with 
a dense  dark  cloud. 

But  night-time  in  this  dreadful  spot ! 
— night,  when  the  smoke  was  changed 
to  fire  ; when  every  chimney  spurted  up 
its  flame  ; and  places  that  had  been 
dark  vaults  all  day  now  shone  red  hot, 
with  figures  moving  to  and  fro  within 
their  blazing  jaws,  and  calling  to  one 
another  with  hoarse  cries,  — night,  when 
the  noise  of  every  strange  machine 
was  aggravated  by  the  darkness  ; when 
the  people  near  them  looked  wilder 
and  more  savage  ; when  bands  of  un- 
employed laborers  paraded  the  roads, 
or  clustered  by  torchlight  round  their 
leaders,  who  told  them,  in  stern  lan- 
guage, of  their  wrongs,  and  urged  them 
on  to  frightful  cries  and  threats  ; when 
maddened  men,  armed  with  sword  and 
firebrand,  spurning  the  tears  and  pray- 
ers of  women  who  would  restrain  them, 
rushed  forth  on  errands  of  terror  and  de- 
struction, to  work  no  ruin  half  so  surely 
as  their  own,  — night,  when  carts  came 
rumbling  by,  filled  with  rude  coffins 
(for  contagious  disease  and  death  had 
been  busy  with  the  living  crops) ; when 
orphans  cried,  and  distracted  women 
shrieked  and  followed  in  their  wake,  — 
night,  when  some  called  for  bread,  and 
some  for  drink  to  drown  their  cares,  and 
some  with  tears,  and  some  with  stag- 
gering feet,  and  some  with  bloodshot 
eyes,  went  brooding  home, — night, 
which,  unlike  the  night  that  Heaven 
sends  on  earth,  brought  with  it  no 
peace,  nor  quiet,  nor  signs  of  blessed 
sleep  ; — who  shall  tell  the  terrors  of  the 
night  to  the  young  wandering  child  ! 

And  yet  she  lay  down,  with  nothing 
between  her  and  the  sky  ; and  with  no 
fear  for  herself,  for  she  was  past  it  now, 
put  up  a prayer  for  the  poor  old  man. 
So  very  weak  and  spent  she  felt,  so 
very  calm  and  unresisting,  that  she  had 
no  thought  of  any  wants  of  her  own,  but 


igS 


7 HE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


prayed  that  God  would  raise  up  some 
friend  for  him.  She  tried  to  recall  the 
way  they  had  come,  and  to  look  in  the 
direction  where  the  fire  by  which  they 
had  slept  last  night  was  burning.  She 
had  forgotten  to  ask  the  name  of  the 
oor  man,  their  friend,  and  when  she 
ad  remembered  him  in  her  prayers,  it 
seemed  ungrateful  not  to  turn  one  look 
towards  the  spot  where  he  was  watch- 
ing. 

A penny  loaf  was  all  they  had  had 
that  day.  It  was  very  little,  but  even 
hunger  was  forgotten  in  the  strange 
tranquillity  that  crept  over  her  senses. 
She  lay  down,  very  gently,  and,  with  a 
quiet  smile  upon  her  face,  fell  into  a 
slumber.  It  was  not  like  sleep— and 
yet  it  must  have  been,  or  why  those 
pleasant  dreams  of  the  little  scholar  all 
night  long  ! 

Morning  came.  Much  weaker,  di- 
minished powers  even  of  sight  and  hear- 
ing, and  yet  the  child  made  no  com- 
plaint, — perhaps  would  have  made  none, 
even  if  she  had  not  had  that  induce- 
ment to  be  silent  travelling  by  her 
side.  She  felt  a hopelessness  of  their 
ever  being  extricated  together  from  that 
forlorn  place ; a dull  conviction  that  she 
was  very  ill,  perhaps  dying  ; but  no  fear 
or  anxiety. 

A loathing  of  food  that  she  was  not 
conscious  of  until  they  expended  their 
last  penny  in  the  purchase  of  another 
loaf  prevented  her  partaking  even  of 
this  poor  repast.  Her  grandfather  ate 
greedily,  which  she  was  glad  to  see. 

Their  way  led  through  the  same 
scenes  as  yesterday,  with  no  variety  or 
improvement.  There  was  the  same 
thick  air,  difficult  to  breathe,  the  same 
blighted  ground,  the  same  hopeless 
prospect,  the  same  misery  and  distress. 
Objects  appeared  more  dim,  the  noise 
less,  the  path  more  rugged  and  uneven, 
for  sometimes  she  stumbled,  and  be- 
came roused,  as  it  were,  in  the  effort 
to  prevent  herself  from  falling.  Poor 
child  ! the  cause  was  in  her  tottering 
feet. 

Towards  the  afternoon,  her  grandfa- 
ther complained  bitterly  of  hunger. 
She  approached  one  of  the  wretched 
hovels  by  the  wayside,  and  knocked 
with  her  hand  upon  the  door. 


“ What  would  you  have  here  ? ” said 
a gaunt  man,  opening  it. 

“ Charity.  A morsel  of  bread.” 

“Do  you  see  that?”  returned  the 
man,  hoarsely,  pointing  to  a kind  of 
bundle  on  the  ground.  “ That  ;s  a dead 
child.  I and  five  hundred  other  men 
were  thrown  out  of  work  three  months 
ago.  That  is  my  third  dead  child,  and 
last.  Do  you  think  / have  charity  to 
bestow,  or  a morsel  of  bread  to  spare  ? ” 
The  child  recoiled  from  the  door,  and 
it  closed  upon  her.  Impelled  by  strong 
necessity,  she  knocked  at  another,  a 
neighboring  one,  which,  yielding  to  the 
slight  pressure  of  her  hand,  flew  open. 

It  seemed  that  a couple  of  poor  fami- 
lies lived  in  this  hovel,  for  two  women, 
each  among  children  of  her  own,  occu- 
pied different  portions  of  the  room.  In 
the  centre  stood  a grave  gentleman  in 
black,  who  appeared  to  have  just  en- 
tered, and  who  held  by  the  arm  a boy. 

“Here,  woman,”  he  said,  “here’s 
your  deaf  and  dumb  son.  You  may 
thank  me  for  restoring  him  to  you.  He 
was  brought  before  me,  this  morning, 
charged  with  theft ; and  with  any  other 
boy  it  would  have  gone  hard,  I assure 
you.  But,  as  I had  compassion  on  his 
infirmities,  and  thought  he  might  have 
learnt  no  better,  I have  managed  to 
bring  him  back  to  you.  Take  more 
care  of  him  for  the  future.” 

“ And  won’t  you  give  me  back  my 
son  ? ” said  the  other  woman,  hastily 
rising  and  confronting  him.  “Won’t 
you  give  me  back  my  son,  sir,  who  was 
transported  for  the  same  offence  ? ” 
“Was  he  deaf  and  dumb,  woman?” 
asked  the  gentleman,  sternly. 

“ Was  he  not,  sir  ? ” 

“ You  know  he  was  not.” 

“He  was,”  cried  the  woman.  “He 
was  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind,  to  all  that 
was  good  and  right,  from  his  cradle. 
Her  boy  may  have  learnt  no  better  1 
where  did  mine  learn  better?  where 
could  he  ? who  was  there  to  teach  him 
better,  or  where  was  it  to  be  learnt?” 

“ Peace,  woman,”  said  the  gentle- 
man, “your  boy  was  in  possession  of 
all  his  senses.” 

“ He  was,”  cried  the  mother;  “and 
he  was  the  more  easy  to  be  led  astray 
because  he  had  them.  If  you  save  this 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


199 


boy  because  he  may  not  know  right  from 
wrong,  why  did  you  not  save  mine  who 
was  never  taught  the  difference  ? You 
gentlemen  have  as  good  right  to  punish 
her  boy,  that  God  has  kept  in  ignorance 
of  sound  and  speech,  as  you  have  to 
punish  mine,  that  you  kept  in  ignorance 
yourselves.  How  many  of  the  girls  and 
boys  — ah,  men  and  women  too  — that 
are  brought  before  you,  and  you  don’t 
pity,  are  deaf  and  dumb  in  their  minds, 
and  go  wrong  in  that  state,  and  are 
punished  in  that  state,  body  and  soul, 
while  you  gentlemen  are  quarrelling 
among  yourselves  whether  they  ought 
to  learn  this  or  that?  Be  a just  man, 
sir,  and  give  me  back  my  son  ! ” 

“You  are  desperate,”  said  the  gen- 
tleman, taking  out  his  snuffbox,  “and 
I am  sorry  for  you.” 

“ I am  desperate,”  returned  the  wo- 
man, “and  you  have  made  me  so. 
Give  me  back  my  son,  to  work  for  these 
helpless  children.  Be  a just  man,  sir, 
and,  as  you  have  had  mercy  upon  this 
boy,  give  me  back  my  son  ! ” 

The  child  had  seen  and  heard  enough 
to  know  that  this  was  not  a place  at 
which  to  ask  for  alms.  She  led  the  old 
man  softly  from  the  door,  and  they  pur- 
sued their  journey. 

With  less  and  less  of  hope  or  strength, 
as  they  went  on,  but  with  an  undimin- 
ished resolution  not  to  betray  by  any 
word  or  sign  her  sinking  state,  so  long 
as  she  had  energy  to  move,  the  child, 
throughout  the  remainder  of  that  hard 
day,  compelled  herself  to  proceed  ; not 
even  stopping  to  rest  as  frequently  as 
usual,  to  compensate  in  some  measure 
for  the  tardy  pace  at  which  she  was 
obliged  to  walk.  Evening  was  draw- 
ing on,  but  had  not  closed  in,  when  — 
still  travelling  among  the  same  dismal 
objects  — they  came  to  a busy  town. 

Faint  and  spiritless  as  they  were,  its 
streets  were  insupportable.  After  hum- 
bly asking  for  relief  at  some  few  doors, 
and  being  repulsed,  they  agreed  to 
make  their  way  out  of  it  as  speedily  as 
they  could,  and  try  if  tlfb  inmates  of 
any  lone  house  beyond  would  have 
more  pity  on  their  exhausted  state. 

They  were  dragging  themselves  along 
through  the  last  street,  and  the  child  felt 
that  the  time  was  close  at  hand  when  her 


enfeebled  powers  would  bear  no  more. 
There  appeared  before  them,  at  this 
juncture,  going  in  the  same  direction 
as  themselves,  a traveller  on  foot,  who, 
with  a portmanteau  strapped  to  his 
back,  leaned  upon  a stout  stick  as  he 
walked,  and  read  from  a book  which  he 
held  in  his  other  hand. 

It  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  come  up 
with  him  and  beseech  his  aid,  for  he 
walked  fast,  and  was  a little  distance 
in  advance.  At  length  he  stopped  to 
look  more  attentively  at  some  passage 
in  his  book.  Animated  with  a ray  of 
hope,  the  child  shot  on  before  her 
grandfather,  and,  going  close  to  the 
stranger  without  rousirtg  him  by  the 
sound  of  her  footsteps,  began,  in  a few 
faint  words,  to  implore  his  help. 

He  turned  his  head.  The  child 
clapped  her  hands  together,  uttered  a 
wild  shriek,  and  fell  senseless  at  his 
feet. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

It  was  the  poor  schoolmaster.  No 
other  than  the  poor  schoolmaster. 
Scarcely  less  moved  and  surprised  by 
the  sight  of  the  child  than  she  had  been 
on  recognizing  him,  he  stood,  for  a 
moment,  silent  and  confounded  by  this 
unexpected  apparition,  without  even  the 
presence  of  mind  to  raise  her  from  the 
ground. 

But,  quickly  recovering  his  self-pos- 
session, he  threw  down  his  stick  and 
book,  and,  dropping  on  one  knee  be- 
side her,  endeavored,  by  such  simple 
means  as  occurred  to  him,  to  restore 
her  to  herself;  while  her  grandfather, 
standing  idly  by,  wrung  his  hands,  and 
implored  her  with  many  endearing  ex- 
pressions to  speak  to  him,  were  it  only 
a word. 

“ She  is  quite  exhausted,”  said  the 
schoolmaster,  glancing  upward  into  his 
face.  “ You  have  taxed  her  powers 
too  far,  friend.” 

“She  is  perishing  of  want,”  rejoined 
the  old  man.  “ I never  thought  how 
weak  and  ill  she  was,  till  now.” 

Casting  a look  upon  him,  half  re- 
proachful and  half  compassionate,  the 
schoolmaster  took  the  child  in  his 


200 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


arms,  and,  bidding  the  old  man  gather 
up  her  little  basket  and  follow  him 
directly,  bore  her  away  at  his  utmost 
speed. 

There  was  a small  inn  within  sight, 
to  which,  it  would  seem,  he  had  been 
directing  his  steps  when  so  unexpect- 
edly overtaken.  Towards  this  place  he 
hurried  with  his  unconscious  burden, 
and  rushing  into  the  kitchen,  and  call- 
ing upon  the  company  there  assem- 
. bled  to  make  way  for  God’s  sake,  de- 
posited it  on  a chair  before  the  fire. 

The  company,  who  rose  in  confusion 
on  the  schoolmaster’s  entrance,  did  as 
people  usually  do  under  such  circum- 
stances. Everybody  called  for  his  or 
her  favorite  remedy,  which  nobody 
brought ; each  cried  for  more  air,  at 
the  same  time  carefully  excluding  what 
air  there  was  by  closing  round  the 
object  of  sympathy  ; and  all  wondered 
why  somebody  else  didn’t  do  what 
it  never  appeared  to  occur  to  them 
might  be  done  by  themselves. 

The  landlady,  however,  who  pos- 
sessed more  readiness  and  activity  than 
any  of  them,  and  who  had  withal  a 
quicker  perception  of  the  merits  of  the 
case,  soon  came  running  in  with  a little 
hot  brandy  and  water,  followed  by  her 
servant-girl,  carrying  vinegar,  hartshorn, 
smelling-salts,  and  such  other  restora- 
tives ; which,  being  duly  administered, 
recovered  the  child  so  far  as  to  enable 
her  to  thank  them  in  a faint  voice,  and 
to  extend  her  hand  to  the  poor  school- 
master, who  stood,  with  an  anxious 
face,  hard  by.  Without  suffering  her 
to  speak  another  word,  or  so  much  as 
to  stir  a finger  any  moje,  the  women 
straightway  carried  her  off  to  bed  ; and 
having  covered  her  up  warm,  bathed 
her  cold  feet,  and  wrapt  them  in  flannel,, 
they  despatched  a messenger  for  the 
doctor. 

The  doctor,  who  was  a red-nosed  gen- 
tleman with  a great  bunch  of  seals 
dangling  below  a waistcoat  of  ribbed 
black  satin,  arrived  with  all  speed,  and, 
taking  his  seat  by  the  bedside  of  poor 
Nell,  drew  out  his  watch,  and  felt  her 
pulse.  Then  he  looked  at  her  tongue, 
then  he  felt  her  pulse  again,  and  while 
he  did  so,  he  eyed  the  half-emptied 
wineglass  as  if  in  profound  abstraction. 


“ I should  give  her,”  said  the  doc- 
tor at  length,  “ a teaspoonful,  every 
now  and  then,  of  hot  brandy  and  wa- 
ter.” 

“ Why,  that  ’s  exactly  what  we  ’ve 
done,  sir  ! ” said  the  delighted  land- 
lady. 

“ I should  also,”  observed  the  doc- 
tor, who  had  passed  the  foot-bath  on 
the  stairs,  — “I  should  also,”  said  the 
doctor,  in  the  voice  of  an  oracle,  “ put 
her  feet  in  hot  water,  and  wrap  them 
up  in  flannel.  I should  likewise,”  said 
the  doctor,  with  increased  solemnity, 
“give  her  something  light  for  supper, 
— the  wing  of  a roasted  fowl  now  — ” 

“ Why,  goodness  gracious  me,  sir, 
it ’s  cooking  at  the  kitchen  fire  this 
instant  ! ” cried  the  landlady.  And  so 
indeed  it  was,  for  the  schoolmaster  had 
ordered  it  to  be  put  down,  and  it  was 
getting  on  so  well  that  the  doctor  might 
have  smelt  it  if  he  had  tried,  — perhaps 
he  did. 

“You  may  then,”  said  the  doctor, 
rising  gravely,  “ give  her  a glass  of  hot 
mulled  port  wine,  if  she  likes  wine  — ” 

“And  a toast,  sir?”  suggested  the 
landlady. 

“ Ay,”  said  the  doctor,  in  the  tone  or 
a man  who  makes  a dignified  conces- 
sion. “And  a toast  — of  bread.  But 
be  very  particular  to  make  it  of  bread, 
if  you  please,  ma’am.” 

With  which  parting  injunction,  slow- 
ly and  portentously  delivered,  the  doctor 
departed,  leaving  the  whole  house  in 
admiration  of  that  wisdom  which  tal- 
lied so  closely  with  their  own.  Every- 
body said  he  was  a very  shrewd  doctor 
indeed,  and  knew  perfectly  what  peo- 
ple’s constitutions  were  ; which  there 
appears  some  reason  to  suppose  he 
did. 

While  her  supper  was  preparing,  the 
child  fell  into  a refreshing  sleep,  from 
which  they  were  obliged  to  rouse  her 
when  it  was  ready.  As  she  evinced  ex- 
traordinary uneasiness  on  learning  that 
her  grandfather  was  below  stairs,  and 
was  greatly  troubled  at  the  thought  of 
their  being  apart,  he  took  his  supper 
with  her.  Finding  her  still  very  rest- 
less on  this  head,  they  made  him  up  a 
bed  in  an  inner  room,  to  which  he  pres- 
ently retired.  The  key  of  this  chamber 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


201 


happened  by  good  fortune  to  be  on  that 
side  of  the  door  which  was  in  Nell’s 
room.  She  turned  it  on  him  when  the 
landlady  had  withdrawn,  and  crept  to 
bed  again  with  a thankful  heart. 

The  schoolmaster  sat  for  a long  time 
smoking  his  pipe  by  the  kitchen  fire, 
which  was  now  deserted,  thinking,  with 
a very  happy  face,  on  the  fortunate 
chance  which  had  brought  him  so  op- 
portunely to  the  child’s  assistance,  and 
parrying,  as  well  as  in  his  simple  way 
he  could,  the  inquisitive  cross-examina- 
tion of  the  landlady,  who  had  a great 
curiosity  to  be  made  acquainted  with 
every  particular  of  Nell’s  life  and  his- 
tory. The  poor  schoolmaster  was  so 
open-hearted,  and  so  little  versed  in 
the  most  ordinary  cunning  or  deceit, 
that  she  could  not  have  failed  to  suc- 
ceed in  the  first  five  minutes,  but  that 
he  happened  to  be  unacquainted  with 
what  she  wished  to  know,  and  so  he  told 
her.  The  landlady,  by  no  means  sat- 
isfied with  this  assurance,  which  she 
considered  an  ingenious  evasion  of  the 
question,  rejoined  that  he  had  his  rea- 
sons of  course.  Heaven  forbid  that 
she  should  wish  to  pry  into  the  affairs 
of  her  customers,  which  indeed  were 
no  business  of  hers,  who  had  so  many 
of  her  own.  She  had  merely  asked  a 
civil  question,  and  to  be  sure  she  knew 
it  would  meet  with  a civil  answer.  She 
was  quite  satisfied,  — quite.  She  had 
rather,  perhaps,  that  he  would  have 
said  at  once  that  he  did  n’t  choose  to 
be  communicative,  because  that  would 
have  been  plain  and  intelligible.  How- 
ever, she  had  no  right  to  be  offended 
of  course.  He  was  the  best  judge,  and 
had  a perfect  right  to  say  what  he 
pleased ; nobody  could  dispute  that,  for 
a moment.  O dear,  no  ! 

“ I assure  you,  my  good  lady,”  said 
the  mild  schoolmaster,  “ that  I have 
told  you  the  plain  truth, — as  I hope  to 
be  saved,  I have  told  you  the  truth.” 

“ Why,  then,  I do  believe  you  are  in 
earnest,”  rejoined  the  landlady,  with 
ready  good-humor,  “ and  I ’m  very 
sorry  I have  teased  you.  But  curiosity, 
you  know,  is  the  curse  of  our  sex,  and 
that’s  the  fact.” 

The  landlord  scratched  his  head,  as 
if  he  thought  the  curse  sometimes  in- 


volved the  other  sex  likewise  ; but  he 
was  prevented  from  making  any  remark 
to  that  effect,  if  he  had  it  in  contempla- 
tion to  do  so,  by  the  schoolmaster’s 
rejoinder. 

“You  should  question  me  for  half  a 
dozen  hours  at  a sitting,  and  welcome, 
and  I would  answer  you  patiently  for 
the  kindness  of  heart  you  have  shown 
to-night,  if  I could,”  he  said.  “As  it 
is,  please  to  take  care  of  her  in  the 
morning,  and  let  me  know  early  how 
she  is  ; and  to  understand  that  I am 
paymaster  for  the  three.” 

So,  parting  with  them  on  most  friend- 
ly terms,  not  the  less  cordial  perhaps 
for  this  last  direction,  the  schoolmaster 
went  to  his  bed,  and  the  host  and  host- 
ess to  theirs. 

The  report  in  the  morning  was,  that 
the  child  was  better,  but  was  extremely 
weak,  and  would  at  least  require  a day’s 
rest,  and  careful  nursing,  before  she 
could  proceed  upon  her  journey.  The 
schoolmaster  received  this  communica- 
tion with  perfect  cheerfulness,  observ- 
ing that  he  had  a day  to  spare,  — two 
days,  for  that  matter,  — and  could  very 
well  afford  to  wait.  As  the  patient  was 
to  sit  up  in  the  evening,  he  appointed 
to  visit  her  in  her  room  at  a certain 
hour,  and,  rambling  out  with  his  book, 
did  not  return  until  the  hour  arrived. 

Nell  could  not  help  weeping  when 
they  were  left  alone  ; whereat,  and  at 
sight  of  her  pale  face  and  wasted  figure, 
the  simple  schoolmaster  shed  a few 
tears  himself,  at  the  same  time  showing 
in  very  energetic  language  how  foolish 
it  was  to  do  so,  and  how  very  easily  it 
could  be  avoided,  if  one  tried. 

“ It  makes  me  unhappy  even  in  the 
midst  of  all  this  kindness,”  said  the 
child,  to  think  that  we  should  be  a bur- 
den upon  you.  How  can  I ever  thank 
you  ? If  I had  not  met  you  so  far  from 
home,  I must  have  died,  and  he  would 
have  been  left  alone.” 

“We’ll  not  talk  about  dying,”  said 
the  schoolmaster ; “ and  as  to  burdens, 
I have  made  my  fortune  since  you  slept 
at  my  cottage.” 

“ Indeed  ! ” cried  the  child,  joyfully. 

“ O yes,”  returned  her  friend.  “ I 
have  been  appointed  clerk  and  school- 
master to  a village  a long  way  from 


202 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


here,  — and  a long  way  from  the  old 
one  as  you  may  suppose,  — at  five-and- 
thirty  pounds  a year.  Five-and-thirty 
pounds ! ” 

“ I am  very  glad,”  said  the  child,  — 
“ so  very,  very  glad.” 

“ I am  on  my  way  there,  now,”  re- 
sumed the  schoolmaster.  “ They  al- 
lowed me  the  stage-coach  hire,  — out- 
side stage-coach  hire  all  the  way.  Bless 
you,  they  grudge  me  nothing.  But  as 
the  time  at  which  I am  expected  there 
left  me  ample  leisure,  I determined  to 
walk  instead.  How  glad  I am  to  think 
I did  so  ! ” 

“ How  glad  should  we  be  ! ” 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  the  schoolmaster, 
moving  restlessly  in  his  chair;  “cer- 
tainly, that ’s  very  true.  But  you  — 
where  are  you  going,  where  are  you 
coming  from,  what  have  you  been  do- 
ing since  you  left  me,  what 'had  you 
been  doing  before?  Now,  tell  me,  — 
do  tell  me.  I know  very  little  of  the 
world,  and  perhaps  you  are  better  fitted 
to  advise  me  in  its  affairs  than  I am 
qualified  to  give  advice  to  you ; but  I am 
very  sincere,  and  I have  a reason  (you 
have  not  forgotten  it)  for  loving  you.  I 
have  felt  since  that  time  as  if  my  love 
for  him  who  died  had  been  transferred 
to  you  who  stood  beside  his  bed.  If 
this,”  he  added,  looking  upwards,  “ is 
the  beautiful  creation  that  springs  from 
ashes,  let  its  peace  prosper  with  me,  as 
I deal  tenderly  and  compassionately  by 
this  young  child  ! ” 

The  plain,  frank  kindness  of  the  hon- 
est schoolmaster,  the  affectionate  ear- 
nestness of  his  speech  and  manner,  the 
truth  which  was  stamped  upon  his 
every  word  and  look,  gave  the  child  a 
confidence  in  him,  which  the  utmost 
arts  of  treachery  and  dissimulation 
could  never  have  awakened  in  her 
breast.  She  told  him  all,  — that  they 
had  no  friend  or  relative  ; that  she 
had  fled  with  the  old  man  to  save  him 
from  a madhouse  and  all  the  miseries 
he  dreaded  ; that  she  was  flying,  now, 
to  save  him  from  himself ; and  that 
she  sought  an  asylum  in  some  remote 
and  primitive  place,  where  the  tempta- 
tion before  which  he  fell  would  never 
enter,  and  her  late  sorrows  and  distress- 
es could  have  no  place. 


The  schoolmaster  heard  her  with  as- 
tonishment. “This  child  ! ” he  thought, 
— “ has  this  child  heroically  persevered 
under  all  doubts  and  dangers,  struggled 
with  poverty  and  suffering,  upheld  and 
sustained  by  strong  affection  and  the 
consciousness  of  rectitude  alone  ! And 
yet  the  world  is  full  of  such  heroism. 
Have  I yet  to  learn  that  the  hardest 
and  best-borne  trials  are  those  which 
are  never  chronicled  in  any  earthly  rec- 
ord, and  are  suffered  every  day  ? And 
should  I be  surprised  to  hear  the  story 
of  this  child  ? ” 

What  more  he  thought  or  said  mat- 
ters not.  It  was  concluded  that  Nell 
and  her  grandfather  should  accompany 
him  to  the  village  whither  he  was 
bound,  and  that  he  should  endeavor  to 
find  them  some  humble  occupation  by 
which  they  could  subsist.  “We  shall 
be  sure  to  succeed,”  said  the  school- 
master, heartily.  “The  cause  is  too 
good  a one  to  fail.” 

They  arranged  to  proceed  upon  their 
journey  next  evening,  as  a stage- wag- 
on, which  travelled  for  some  distance 
on  the  same  road  as  they  must  take, 
would  stop  at  the  inn  to  change  horses, 
and  the  driver  for  a small  gratuity 
would  give  Nell  a place  inside.  A 
bargain  was  soon  struck  when  the  wag- 
on came  ; and  in  due  time  it  rolled 
away,  with  the  child  comfortably  be- 
stowed among  the  softer  packages,  her 
grandfather  and  the  schoolmaster  walk  - 
ing on  beside  the  driver,  and  the  land- 
lady and  all  the  good  folks  of  the  inn 
screaming  out  their  good  wishes  and 
farewells. 

What  a soothing,  luxurious,  drowsy 
way  of  travelling,  to  lie  inside  that 
slowly  moving  mountain,  listening  to 
the  tinkling  of  the  horses’  bells,  the 
occasional  smacking  of  the  carter's  whip, 
the  smooth  rolling  of  the  great  broad 
wheels,  the  rattle  of  the  harness,  the 
cheery  good-nights  of  passing  travellers 
jogging  past  on  little  short-stepped 
horses,  — all  made  pleasantly  indistinct 
by  the  thick  awning,  which  seemed 
made  for  lazy  listening  under,  till  one 
fell  asleep ! The  very  going  to  sleep, 
still  with  an  indistinct  idea,  as  the  head 
jogged  to  and  fro  upon  the  pillow,  of 
moving  onward  with  no  trouble  or 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


203 


fatigue,  and  hearing  all  these  sounds 
like  dreamy  music,  lulling  to  the  senses, 
— and  the  slow  waking  up,  and  finding 
one’s  self  staring  out  through  the  breezy 
curtain  half-opened  in  the  front,  far  up 
into  the  cold  bright  sky  with  its  count- 
less stars,  and  downward  at  the  driver’s 
lantern,  dancing  on  like  its  namesake 
Jack  of  the  swamps  and  marshes,  and 
sideways  at  the  dark  grim  trees,  and 
forward  at  the  long  bare  road  rising  up, 
up,  up,  until  it  stopped  abruptly  at  a 
sharp  high  ridge  as  if  there  were  no 
more  road,  and  all  beyond  was  sky,  — 
and  the  stopping  at  the  inn  to  bait,  and 
being  helped  out,  and  going  into  a room 
with  fire  and  candles,  and  winking  very 
much,  and  being  agreeably  reminded 
that  the  night  was  cold,  and  anxious  for 
very  comfort’s  sake  to  think  it  colder 
than  it  was!  — What  a delicious  jour- 
ney was  that  journey  in  the  wagon  ! 

Then  the  going  on  again, — so  fresh 
at  first,  and  shortly  afterwards  so  sleepy. 
The  waking  from  a sound  nap  as  the 
mail  came  dashing  past  like  a highway 
comet,  with  gleaming  lamps  and  rattling 
hoofs,  and  visions  of  a guard  behind, 
standing  up  to  keep  his  feet  warm,  and 
of  a gentleman  in  a fur  cap  opening  his 
eyes  and  looking  wild  and  stupefied. 
The  stopping  at  the  turnpike  where  the 
man  was  gone  to  bed,  and  knocking 
at  the  door  until  he  answered  with  a 
smothered  shout  from  under  the  bed- 
clothes in  the  little  room  above,  where 
the  faint  light  was  burning,  and  present- 
ly came  down,  night-capped  and  shiver- 
ing, to  throw  the  gate  wide  open,  and 
wish  all  wagons  off  the  road,  except  by 
day.  The  cold,  sharp  interval  between 
night  and  morning,  — the  distant  streak 
of  light  widening  and  spreading,  and 
turning  from  gray  to  white,  and  from 
white  to  yellow,  and  from  yellow  to 
burning  red.  The  presence  of  day,  with 
all  its  cheerfulness  and  life,  — men  and 
horses  at  the  plough,  birds  in  the  trees 
and  hedges,  and  boys  in  solitary  fields, 
frightening  them  away  with  rattles. 
The  coming  to  a town, — people  busy 
in  the  market  ; light  carts  and  chaises 
round  the  tavern  yard;  tradesmen  stand- 
ing at  their  doors  ; men  running  horses 
up  and  down  the  street  for  sale ; pigs 
plunging  and  grunting  in  the  dirty 


distance,  getting  off  with  long  strings  at 
their  legs,  running  into  clean  chemists’ 
shops  and  being  dislodged  with  brooms 
by  ’prentices  ; the  night  coach  changing 
horses  ; the  passengers  cheerless,  cold, 
ugly,  and  discontented,  with  three 
months’  growth  of  hair  in  one  night ; 
the  coachman  fresh  as  from  a bandbox, 
and  exquisitely  beautiful  by  contrast. 
So  much  bustle,  so  many  things  in  mo- 
tion, such  a variety  of  incidents,  — when 
was  there  a journey  with  so  many  de- 
lights as  that  journey  in  the  wagon  ! 

Sometimes  walking  for  a mile  or  two 
while  her  grandfather  rode  inside,  and 
sometimes  even  prevailing  upon  the 
schoolmaster  to  take  her  place  and  lie 
down  to  rest,  Nell  travelled  on  very 
happily  until  they  came  to  a large  town, 
where  the  wagon  stopped,  and  where 
they  spent  a night.  They  passed  a large 
church  ; and  in  the  streets  w'ere  a num- 
ber of  old  houses,  built  of  a kind  of  earth 
or  plaster,  crossed  and  recrossed  in  a 
great  many  directions  with  black  beams, 
which  gave  them  a remarkable  and 
very  ancient  look.  The  doors,  too,  were 
arched  and  low,  some  with  oaken  por- 
tals and  quaint  benches,  \Vhere  the  for- 
mer inhabitants  had  sat  on  summer 
evenings.  The  windows  were  latticed 
in  little  diamond  panes,  that  seemed  to 
wink  and  blink  upon  the  passengers 
as  if  they  were  dim  of  sight.  They  had 
long  since  got  clear  of  the  smoke  and 
furnaces,  except  in  one  or  two  soli- 
tary instances,  where  a factory  planted 
among  fields  withered  the  space  about 
it,  like  a burning  mountain.  When 
they  had  passed  through  this  town, 
they  entered  again  upon  the.  country, 
and  began  to  draw  near  their  place  of 
destination. 

It  was  not  so  near,  however,  but  that 
they  spent  another  night  upon  the  road, 
— not  that  their  doing  so  was  quite  an 
act  of  necessity,  but  that  the  schoolmas- 
ter, when  they  approached  within  a few 
miles  of  his  village,  had  a fidgety  sense 
of  his  dignity  as  the  new  clerk,  and  was 
unwilling  to  make  his  entry  in  dusty 
shoes  and  travel-disordered  dress.  It 
was  a fine,  clear,  autumn  morning, 
when  they  came  upon  the  scene  of  his 
promotion,  and  stopped  to  contemplate 
its  beauties. 


204 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“ See,  here ’s  the  church  ! ” cried 
the  delighted  schoolmaster,  in  a low 
voice;  “and  that  old  building  close 
beside  it  is  the  schoolhouse,  I ’ll  be 
sworn.  Five-and-thirty  pounds  a year 
in  this  beautiful  place  ! ” 

They  admired  everything, — the  old 
gray  porch,  the  mullioned  windows,  the 
venerable  gravestones  dotting  the  green 
churchyard,  the  ancient  tower,  the  very 
weathercock ; the  brown  thatched  roofs 
of  cottage,  barn,  and  homestead,  peep- 
ing from  among  the  trees  ; the  stream 
that  rippled  by  the  distant  watermill ; 
the  blue  Welsh  mountains  far  away.  It 
was  for  such  a spot  the  child  had  wea- 
ried in  the  dense,  dark,  miserable 
haunts  of  labor.  Upon  her  bed  of 
ashes,  and  amidst  the  squalid  horrors 
through  which  they  had  forced  their 
way,  visions  of  such  scenes  — beautiful 
indeed,  but  not  more  beautiful  than  this 
sweet  reality  — had  been  always  present 
to  her  mind.  They  had  seemed  to  melt 
into  a dim  and  airy  distance,  as  the 
prospect  of  ever  beholding  them  again 
rew  fainter  ; but,  as  they  receded,  she 
ad  loved  and  panted  for  them  more. 

“ I must  leave  you  somewhere  for  a 
few  minutes,”  said  the  schoolmaster,  at 
length  breaking  the  silence  into  which 
they  had  fallen  in  their  gladness.  “ I 
have  a letter  to  present,  and  inquiries  to 
make,  you  know.  Where  shall  I take 
you?  To  the  little  inn  yonder?” 

“Let  us  wait  here,”  rejoined  Nell. 
“The  gate  is  open.  We  will  sit  in  the 
church-porch  till  you  come  back.” 

“ A good  place  too,”  said  the  school- 
master, leading  the  way  towards  it, 
disencumbering  himself  of  his  portman- 
teau, and  placing  it  on  the  stone  seat. 
“ Be  sure  that  I come  back  with  good 
news,  and  am  not  long  gone.” 

So  the  happy  schoolmaster  put  on  a 
bran-new  pair  of  gloves  which  he  had 
carried  in  a little  parcel  in  his  pocket 
all  the  way,  and  hurried  off,  full  of 
ardor  and  excitement. 

The  child  watched  him  from  the 
orch  until  the  intervening  foliage  hid 
im  from  her  view,  and  then  stepped 
softly  out  into  the  old  churchyard,  — so 
solemn  and  quiet  that  every  rustle  of 
her  dress  upon  the  fallen  leaves,  which 
strewed  the  path  and  made  her  foot- 


steps noiseless,  seemed  an  invasion  of 
its  silence.  It  was  a very  aged,  ghostly 
place.  The  church  had  been  built  many 
hundreds  of  years  ago,  and  had  once 
had  a convent  or  monastery  attached  ; 
for  arches  in  ruins,  remains  of  oriel  win- 
dows, and  fragments  of  blackened  walls, 
were  yet  standing ; while  other  portions 
of  the  old  building,  which  had  crumbled 
away  and  fallen  down,  were  mingled 
with  the  churchyard  earth  and  over- 
grown with  grass,  as  if  they  too  claimed 
a burying-place,  and  sought  to  mix 
their  ashes  with  the  dust  of  men.  Hard 
by  these  gravestones  of  dead  years,  and 
forming  a part  of  the  ruin  which  some 
pains  had  been  taken  to  render  habita- 
ble in  modern  times,  were  two  small 
dwellings  with  sunken  windows  and 
oaken  doors,  fast  hastening  to  decay, 
empty  and  desolate. 

Upon  these  tenements  the  attention 
of  the  child  became  exclusively  riveted. 
She  knew  not  why.  The  church,  the 
ruin,  the  antiquated  graves,  had  equal 
claims  at  least  upon  a stranger’s 
thoughts,  but  from  the  moment  when 
her  eyes  first  rested  on  these  two  dwell- 
ings, she  could  turn  to  nothing  else. 
Even  when  she  had  made  the  circuit 
of  the  enclosure,  and,  returning  to  the 
porch,  sat  pensively  waiting  for  their 
friend,  she  took  her  station  where  she 
could  still  look  upon  them,  and  felt  as  if 
fascinated  towards  that  spot. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

Kit’s  mother  and  the  single  gentle- 
man, — upon  whose  track  it  is  expedient 
to  follow  with  hurried  steps,  lest  this 
history  should  be  chargeable  with  in- 
constancy, and  the  offence  of  leaving 
its  characters  in  situations  of  uncertain- 
ty and  doubt,  — Kit’s  mother  and  the 
single  gentleman,  speeding  onward  in 
the  post-chaise-and-four  whose  depart- 
ure from  the  notary’s  door  we  have 
already  witnessed,  soon  left  the  town 
behind  them,  and  struck  fire  from  the 
flints  of  the  broad  highway. 

The  good  woman,  being  not  a little 
embarrassed  by  the  novelty  of  her 
situation,  and  certain  maternal  appre- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


205 


hensions  that  perhaps  by  this  time  little 
Jacob,  or  the  baby,  or  both,  had  fallen 
into  the  fire,  or  tumbled  down  stairs, 
or  had  been  squeezed  behind  doors,  or 
had  scalded  their  windpipes  in  endeav- 
oring to  allay  their  thirst  at  the  spouts 
of  tea-kettles,  preserved  an  uneasy  si- 
lence ; and  meeting  from  the  window 
the  eyes  of  turnpike-men,  omnibus- 
drivers,  and  others,  felt,  in  the  new 
dignity  of  her  position,  like  a mourner 
at  a funeral,  who,  not  being  greatly 
afflicted  by  the  loss  of  the  departed, 
recognizes  his  every-day  acquaintance 
from  the  window  of  the  mourning  coach, 
but  is  constrained  to  preserve  a decent 
solemnity  and  the  appearance  of  being 
indifferent  to  all  external  objects. 

To  have  been  indifferent  to  the  com- 
panionship of  the  single  gentleman 
would  have  been  tantamount  to  being 
gifted  with  nerves  of  steel.  Never  did 
chaise  enclose,  or  horses  draw,  such  a 
restless  gentleman  as  he.  He  never 
sat  in  the  same  position  for  two  minutes 
together,  but  was  perpetually  tossing 
his  arms  and  legs  about,  pulling  up  the 
sashes  and  letting  them  violently  down, 
or  thrusting  his  head  out  of  one  window 
to  draw  it  in  again  and  thrust  it  out  of 
another.  He  carried  in  his  pocket,  too, 
a fire-box  of  mysterious  and  unknown 
construction  ; and  as  sure  as  ever  Kit’s 
mother  closed  her  eyes,  so  surely  — 
whisk,  rattle,  fizz  — there  was  the  sin- 
gle gentleman  consulting  his  watch  by 
a flame  of  fire,  and  letting  the  sparks 
fall  down  among  the  straw  as  if  there 
were  no  such  thing  as  a possibility  of 
himself  and  Kit’s  mother  being  roasted 
alive  before  the  boys  could  stop  their 
horses.  Whenever  they  halted  to 
change,  there  he  was,  — out  of  the 
carriage  without  letting  down  the  steps, 
bursting  about  the  inn-yard  like  a light- 
ed cracker,  pulling  out  his  watch  by 
lamplight  and  forgetting  to  look  at  it 
before  he  put  it  up  again,  and  in  short 
committing  so  many  extravagances  that 
Kit’s  mother  was  quite  afraid  of  him. 
Then,  when  the  horses  were  to,  in  he 
came  like  a Harlequin,  and  before  they 
had  gone  a mile,  out  came  the  watch 
and  the  fire-box  together,  and  Kit’s 
mother  was  wide  awake  again,  with  no 
hope  of  a wink  of  sleep  for  that  stage. 


“Are  you  comfortable?”  the  single 
gentleman  would  say  after  one  of  these 
exploits,  turning  sharply  round. 

“ Quite,  sir,  thank  you.” 

“Are  you  sure ? Ain’t  you  cold?  ” 

“ It  is  a little  chilly,  sir,”  Kit’s 
mother  would  reply. 

“ I knew  it  ! ” cried  the  single  gen- 
tleman, letting  down  one  of  the  front 
glasses.  “ She  wants  some  brandy  and 
water ! Of  course  she  does.  How 
could  I forget  it?  Hallo  ! Stop  at  the 
next  inn,  and  call  out  for  a glass  of  hot 
brandy  and  water.” 

It  was  in  vain  for  Kit’s  mother  to 
protest  that  she  stood  in  need  of  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  The  single  gentleman 
was  inexorable  ; and  whenever  he  had 
exhausted  all  other  modes  and  fashions 
of  restlessness,  it  invariably  occurred  to 
him  that  Kit’s  mother  wanted  brandy 
and  water. 

In  this  way  they  travelled  on  until 
near  midnight,  when  they  stopped  to 
supper,  for  which  meal  the  single 
gentleman  ordered  everything  eatable 
that  the  house  contained ; and  because 
Kit’s  mother  didn’t  eat  everything  at 
once,  and  eat  it  all,  he  took  it  into  his 
head  that  she  must  be  ill. 

“You’re  faint,”  said  the  single 
gentleman,  who  did  nothing  himself 
but  walk  about  the  room.  “I  see 
what ’s  the  matter  with  you,  ma’am. 
You’re  faint.” 

“ Thank  you,  sir,  I ’m  not  indeed.” 

“ I know  you  are.  I ’m  sure  of  it. 
I drag  this  poor  woman  from  the  bosom 
of  her  family  at  a minute’s  notice,  and 
she  goes  on  getting  fainter  and  fainter 
before  my  eyes.  I ’m  a pretty  fellow  I 
How  many  children  have  you  got, 
ma’am  ? ” 

“Two,  sir, besides  Kit.” 

“Boys,  ma’am?” 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

“ Are  they  christened  ? ” 

“ Only  half  baptized  as  yet,  sir.” 

“ I ’m  godfather  to  both  of  ’em.  Re- 
member that,  if  you  please,  ma’am.  You 
had  better  have  some  mulled  wine.” 

“I  couldn’t  touch  a drop  indeed, 
sir.” 

“You  must,”  said  the  single  gentle- 
man. “ I see  you  want  it.  I ought  to 
have  thought  of  it  before.” 


206 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


Immediately  flying  to  the  bell,  and 
calling  for  mulled  wine  as  impetuously 
as  if  it  had  been  wanted  for  instant  use 
in  the  recovery  of  some  person  appar- 
ently drowned,  the  single  gentleman 
made  Kit’s  mother  swallow  a bumper 
of  it  at  such  a high  temperature  that 
the  tears  ran  down  her  face,  and  then 
hustled  her  off  to  the  chaise  again, 
where  — not  impossibly  from  the  effects 
of  this  agreeable  sedative  — she  soon 
became  insensible  to  his  restlessness, 
and  fell  fast  asleep.  Nor  were  the  hap- 
py effects  of  this  prescription  of  a tran- 
sitory nature,  as,  notwithstanding  that 
the  distance  was  greater,  and  the  jour- 
ney longer,  than  the  single  gentleman 
had  anticipated,  she  did  not  awake  un- 
til it  was  broad  day,  and  they  were  clat- 
tering over  the  pavement  of  a town. 

“This  is  the  place  ! ” cried  her  com- 
panion, letting  down  all  the  glasses. 
“ Drive  to  the  wax-work  ! ” 

The  boy  on  the  wheeler  touched  his 
hat,  and  setting  spurs  to  his  horse,  to 
the  end  that  they  might  go  in  brilliant- 
ly, all  four  broke  into  a smart  canter, 
and  dashed  through  the  streets  with  a 
noise  that  brought  the  good  folks  won- 
dering to  their  doors  and  windows,  and 
drowned  the  sober  voices  of  the  town- 
clocks  as  they  chimed  out  half  past 
eight.  They  drove  up  to  a door  round 
which  a crowd  of  persons  were  collect- 
ed, and  there  stopped. 

“ What ’s  this?  ’ said  the  single  gen- 
tleman thrusting  out  his  head.  “ Is 
anything  the  matter  here  ? ” 

“ A wedding,  sir,  a wedding  ! ” cried 
several  voices.  “ Hurrah  ! ” 

The  single  gentleman,  rather  bewil- 
dered by  finding  himself  the  centre  of 
this  noisy  throng,  alighted  with  the 
assistance  of  one  of  the  postilions,  and 
handed  out  Kit’s  mother,  at  sight  of 
whom  the  populace  cried  out,  “Here’s 
another  wedding  ! ” and  roared  and 
leaped  for  joy. 

“ The  world  has  gone  mad,  I think,” 
said  the  single  gentleman,  pressing 
through  the  concourse  with  his  sup- 
posed bride.  “ Stand  back  here,  will 
you,  and  let  me  knock.” 

Anything  that  makes  a noise  is  satis- 
factory to  a crowd.  A score  of  dirty 
hands  were  raised  directly  to  knock  for 


him,  and  seldom  has  a knocker  of  equal 
powers  been  made  to  produce  more  deaf- 
ening sounds  than  this  particular  engine 
on  the  occasion  in  question.  Having 
rendered  these  voluntary  services,  the 
throng  modestly  retired  a little,  prefer- 
ring that  the  single  gentleman  should 
bear  their  consequences  alone. 

“ Now,  sir,  what  do  you  want  ? ” said 
a man  with  a large  white  bow  at  his 
button-hole,  opening  the  door,  and  con- 
fronting him  with  a very  stoical  aspect. 

“Who  has  been  married  here,  my 
friend?  ” said  the  single  gentleman. 

“ I have.” 

“You  ! and  to  whom,  in  the  Devil’s 
name?” 

“What  right  have  you  to  ask?”  re- 
turned the  bridegroom,  eying  him  from 
top  to  toe. 

“ What  right ! ” cried  the  single  gen- 
tleman, drawing  the  arm  of  Kit’s  moth- 
er more  tightly  through  his  own,  for 
that  good  woman  evidently  had  it  in 
contemplation  to  run  away.  “ A right 
you  little  dream  of.  Mind,  good  peo- 
ple, if  this  fellow  has  been  marrying  a 
minor,  — tut,  tut,  that  can’t  be.  Where 
is  the^child  you  have  here,  my  good 
fellow.  You  call  her  Nell.  Where  is 
she  ? ” 

As  he  propounded  this  question, 
which  Kit’s  mother  echoed,  somebody 
in  a room  near  at  hand  uttered  a great 
shriek,  and  a stout  lady  in  a white  dress 
came  running  to  the  door,  and  support- 
ed herself  upon  the  bridegroom’s  arm. 

“ Where  is  she  ! ” cried  this  lady. 
“ What  news  have  you  brought  me  ? 
What  has  become  of  her?” 

The  single  gentleman  started  back, 
and  gazed  upon  the  face  of  the  late 
Mrs.  Jarley  (that  morning  wedded  to 
the  philosophic  George,  to  the  eternal 
wrath  and  despair  of  Mr.  Slum,  the 
poet),  with  looks  of  conflicting  appre- 
hension, disappointment,  and  incredu- 
lity. At  length  he  stammered  out,  — 

“ I ask  you  where  she  is?  What  do 
you  mean  ? ” 

“O  sir!”  cried  the  bride,  “if  you 
have  come  here  to  do  her  any  good, 
why  were  n’t  you  here  a week  ago?  ” 

“ She  is  not  — not  dead  ? ” said  the 
person  to  whom  she  addressed  herself, 
turning  very  pale. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


207 


“ No,  not  so  bad  as  that.” 

“I  thank  God,”  cried  the  single  gen- 
tleman, feebly.  “ Let  me  come  in.” 

They  drew  back  to  admit  him,  and 
when  he  had  entered,  closed  the  door. 

“ You  see  in  me,  good  people,”  .he 
said,  turning  to  the  newly  married 
couple,  “one  to  whom  life  itself  is  not 
dearer  than  the  two  persons  whom  I 
seek.  They  would  not  know  me.  My 
features  are  strange  to  them,  but  if  they 
or  either  of  them  are  here,  take  this 
good  woman  with  you  and  let  them  see 
her  first,  for  her  they  both  know.  If 
you  deny  them  from  any  mistaken  regard 
or  fear  for  them,  judge  of  my  intentions 
by  their  recognition  of  this  person  as 
their  old  humble  friend.” 

“ I always  said  it  ! ” cried  the  bride. 
“ I knew  she  was  not  a common  child  ! 
Alas,  sir  ! we  have  no  power  to  help 
you,  for  all  that  we  could  do  has  been 
tried  in  vain.” 

With  that,  they  related  to  him,  with- 
out disguise  or  concealment,  all  that 
they  knew  of  Nell  and  her  grandfather, 
from  their  first  meeting  with  them  down 
to  the  time  of  their  sudden  disappear- 
ance ; adding  (which  was  quite  true) 
that  they  had  made  every  possible  effort 
to  trace  them,  but  without  success; 
having  been  at  first  in  great  alarm  for 
their  safety,  as  well  as  on  account  of  the 
suspicions  to  which  they  themselves 
might  one  day  be  exposed  in  conse- 
quence of  their  abrupt  departure.  They 
dwelt  upon  the  old  man’s  imbecility  of 
mind,  upon  the  uneasiness  the  child  had 
always  testified  when  he  was  absent, 
upon  the  company  he  had  been  sup- 
posed to  keep,  and  upon  the  increased 
depression  which  had  gradually  crept 
over  her  and  changed  her  both  in  health 
and  spirits.  Whether  she  had  missed 
the  old  man  in  the  night,  and,  knowing 
or  conjecturing  whither  he  had  bent  his 
steps,  had  gone  in  pursuit,  or  whether 
they  had  left  the  house  together,  they 
had  no  means  of  determining.  Certain 
they  considered  it,  that  there  was  but 
slender  prospect  left  of  hearing  of  them 
again,  and  that,  whether  their  flight 
originated  with  the  old  man  or  with 
the  child,  there  was  now  no  hope  of 
their  return. 

To  all  this  the  single  gentleman  lis- 


tened with  the  air  of  a man  quite  borne 
down  by  grief  and  disappointment.  He 
shed  tears  when  they  spoke  of  the 
grandfather,  and  appeared  in  deep  af- 
fliction. 

Not  to  protract  this  portion  of  our 
narrative,  and  to  make  short  work  of  a 
long  story,  let  it  be  briefly  written  that 
before  the  interview  came  to  a close,  the 
single  gentleman  deemed  he  had  suffi- 
cient evidence  of  having  been  told  the 
truth,  and  that  he  endeavored  to  force 
upon  the  bride  and  bridegroom  an  ac- 
knowledgment of  their  kindness  to  the 
unfriended  child,  which,  however,  they 
steadily  declined  accepting.  In  the  end, 
the  happy  couple  jolted  away  in  the 
caravan  to  spend  their  honeymoon  in  a 
country  excursion  ; and  the  single  gen- 
tleman and  Kit’s  mother  stood  ruefully 
before  their  carriage  door.  • 

“Where  shall  we  drive  you,  sir?” 
said  the  postboy. 

“ You  may  drive  me,”  said  the  single 
gentleman,  “to  the  — ” He  was  not 
going  to  add  “ inn,”  but  he  added  it  for 
the  sake  of  Kit’s  mother ; and  to  the  inn 
they  went. 

Rumors  had  already  got  abroad  that 
the  little  girl  who  used  to  show  the  wax- 
work  was  the  child  of  great  people,  who 
had  been  stolen  from  her  parents  in 
infancy,  and  had  only  just  been  traced. 
Opinion  was  divided  whether  she  was 
the  daughter  of  a prince,  a duke,  an 
earl,  a viscount,  or  a baron,  but  all 
agreed  upon  the  main  fact,  and  that  the 
single  gentleman  was  her  father;  and 
all  bent  forward  to  catch  a glimpse, 
though  it  were  only  of  the  tip  of  his 
noble  nose,  as  he  rode  away,  despond- 
ing, in  his  four-horse  chaise. 

What  would  he  have  given  to  know, 
and  what  sorrow  would  have  been  saved 
if  he  had  only  known,  that  at  that  mo- 
ment both  child  and  grandfather  were 
seated  in  the  old  church-porch,  patiently 
awaiting  the  schoolmaster’s  return  ! 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

Popular  rumor  concerning  the  sin- 
gle gentleman  and  his  errand,  travelling 
from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  waxing 


208 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


stronger  in  the  marvellous  as  it  was 
bandied  about,  — for  your  popular  ru- 
mor, unlike  the  rolling  stone  of  the 
proverb,  is  one  which  gathers  a deal  of 
moss  in  its  wanderings  up  and  down,  — 
occasioned  his  dismounting  at  the  inn 
door  to  be  looked  upon  as  an  exciting 
and  attractive  spectacle,  which  could 
scarcely  be  enough  admired,  and  drew 
together  a large  concourse  of  idlers, 
who  having  recently  been,  as  it  were, 
thrown  out  of  employment  by  the  closing 
of  the  wax-work  and  the  completion  of 
the  nuptial  ceremonies,  considered  his 
arrival  as  little  else  than  a special  prov- 
idence, and  hailed  it  with  demonstra- 
tions of  the  liveliest  joy. 

Not  at  all  participating  in  the  general 
sensation,  but  wearing  the  depressed 
and  wearied  look  of  one  who  sought  to 
meditate  on  his  disappointment  in  si- 
lence and  privacy,  the  single  gentleman 
alighted,  and  handed  out  Kit’s  mother 
with  a gloomy  politeness  which  im- 
pressed the  lookers-on  extremely.  That 
done,  he  gave  her  his  arm  and  escorted 
her  into  the  house,  while  several  active 
waiters  ran  on  before,  as  a skirmishing 
party,  to  clear  the  way  and  to  show  the 
room  which  was  ready  for  their  recep- 
tion. 

“ Any  room  will  do,”  said  the  single 
gentleman.  “ Let  it  be  near  at  hand, 
that’s  all.” 

“ Close  here,  sir,  if  you  please  to  walk 
this  way.” 

“ Would  the  gentleman  like  this 
room?”  said  a voice,  as  a little  out-of- 
the-way  door  at  the  foot  of  the  well 
staircase  flew  briskly  open  and  a head 
popped  out.  “ He ’s  quite  welcome  to 
it.  He ’s  as  welcome  as  flowers  in  May, 
or  coals  at  Christmas.  Would  you  like 
this  room,  sir?  Honor  me  by  walking 
in.  Do  me  the  favor,  pray.” 

“ Goodness  gracious  me  ! ” cried  Kit’s 
mother,  falling  back  in  extreme  surprise, 
‘‘only  think  of  this  1 ” 

She  had  some  reason  to  be  aston- 
ished, for  the  person  who  proffered  the 
gracious  invitation  was  no  other  than 
Daniel  Quilp.  The  little  door  out  of 
which  he  had  thrust  his  head  was  close 
to  the  inn  larder;  and  there  he  stood, 
bowing  with  grotesque  politeness,  as 
much  at  his  ease  as  if  the  door  were  that 


of  his  own  house,  blighting  all  the  legs 
of  mutton  and  cold  roast  fowls  by  his 
close  companionship,  and  looking  like 
the  evil  genius  of  the  cellars,  come  from 
underground  upon  some  work  of  mis- 
chief. 

‘‘Would  you  do  me  the  honor?”  said 
Quilp. 

“ I prefer  being  alone,”  replied  the 
single  gentleman. 

“ Oh  ! ” said  Quilp.  And  with  that 
he  darted  in  again  with  one  jerk  and 
clapped  the  little  door  to,  like  a figure 
in  a Dutch  clock  when  the  hour  strikes. 

“ Why,  it  was  only  last  night,  sir,” 
whispered  Kit’s  mother,  “ that  I left 
him  in  Little  Bethel.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said  her  fellow-passenger. 
“ When  did  that  person  come  here,  wait- 
er? ” 

“ Come  down  by  the  night-coach,  this 
morning,  sir.” 

“Humph  ! And  when  is  he  going?” 

“Can’t  say,  sir,  really.  When  the 
chambermaid  asked  him  just  now  if  he 
should  want  a bed,  sir,  he  first  made 
faces  at  her,  and  then  wanted  to  kiss 
her.” 

“ Beg  him  to  walk  this  way,”  said  the 
single  gentleman.  “ I should  be  glad 
to  exchange  a word  with  him,  tell  him. 
Beg  him  to  come  at  once,  do  you 
hear?  ” 

The  man  stared  on  receiving  these 
instructions,  for  the  single  gentleman 
had  not  only  displayed  as  much  aston- 
ishment as  Kit’s  mother  at  sight  of  the 
dwarf,  but,  standing  in  no  fear  of  him, 
had  been  at  less  pains  to  conceal  his 
dislike  and  repugnance.  He  departed 
on  his  errand,  however,  and  immediately 
returned,  ushering  in  its  object. 

“Your  servant,  sir,”  said  the  dwarf. 
“ I encountered  your  messenger  half- 
way. I thought  you ’d  allow  me  to  pay 
my  compliments  to  you.  I hope  you’re 
well.  I hope  you  ’re  very  well.” 

There  was  a short  pause,  while  the 
dwarf,  with  half-shut  eyes  and  puckered 
face,  stood  waiting  for  an  answer.  Re- 
ceiving none,  he  turned  towards  his 
more  familiar  acquaintance. 

“ Christopher’s  mother  ! ” he  cried. 
“ Such  a dear  lady,  such  a worthy  wo- 
man, so  blest  in  her  honest  son  1 How 
is  Christopher’s  mother?  Have  change 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


209 


of  air  and  scene  improved  her?  Her 
little  family  too,  and  Christopher?  Do 
they  thrive?  Do  they  flourish?  Are 
they  growing  into  worthy  citizens, 
eh  ? ” 

Making  his  voice  ascend  in  the  scale 
with  every  succeeding  question,  Mr. 
Quilp  finished  in  a shrill  squeak,  and 
subsided  into  the  panting  look  which 
was  customary  with  him,  and  which, 
whether  it  were  assumed  or  natural, 
had  equally  the  effect  of  banishing  all 
expression  from  his  face,  and  rendering 
it,  as  far  as  it  afforded  any  index  to 
his  mood  or  meaning,  a perfect  blank. 

“ Mr.  Quilp,”  said  the  single  gentle- 
man. 

The  dwarf  put  his  hand  to  his  great 
flapped  ear,  and  counterfeited  the  clos- 
est attention. 

“We  two  have  met  before  — ” 

“Surely,”  cried  Quilp,  nodding  his 
head,  “ O,  surely,  sir.  Such  an  honor 
and  pleasure  — it’s  both,  Christopher’s 
mother,  it ’s  both  — is  not  to  be  forgot- 
ten so  soon.  By  no  means  ! ” 

“You  may  remember  that  the  day  I 
arrived  in  London,  and  found  the  house 
to  which  I drove  empty  and  deserted,  I 
was  directed  by  some  of  the  neighbors  to 
you,  and  waited  upon  you  without  stop- 
ping for  rest  or  refreshment  ? ” 

“ How  precipitate  that  was,  and  yet 
what  an  earnest  and  vigorous  meas- 
ure ! ” said  Quilp,  conferring  with  him- 
self, in  imitation  of  his  friend  Mr. 
Sampson  Brass. 

“ I found,”  said  the  single  gentleman, 
“ you,  most  unaccountably,  in  possession 
of  everything  that  had  so  recently  be- 
longed to  another  man,  and  that  other 
man,  who  up  to  the  time  of  your  en- 
tering upon  his  property  had  been 
looked  upon  as  affluent,  reduced  to 
sudden  beggary,  and  driven  from  house 
and  home.” 

“We  had  warrant  for  what  we  did,  my 
good  sir,”  rejoined  Quilp  ; “we  had  our 
warrant.  Don’t  say  driven,  either.  He 
Went  of  his  own  accord,  — vanished  in  the 
night,  sir.” 

“No  matter,”  said  the  single  gentle- 
man, angrily.  “ He  was  gone.” 

“ Yes,  he  was  gone,”  said  Quilp,  with 
the  same  exasperating  composure.  “No 
doubt  he  was  gone.  The  only  ques- 
14 


tion  was,  where.  And  it ’s  a question 
still.” 

“ Now,  what  am  I to  think,”  said  the 
single  gentleman,  sternly  regarding  him, 
“ of  you,  who,  plainly  indisposed  to  give 
me  any  information  then,  — nay,  obvious- 
ly holding  back,  and  sheltering  your- 
self with  all  kinds  of  cunning,  trickery, 
and  evasion,  — are  dogging  my  footsteps 
now  ? ” 

“ I dogging ! ” cried  Quilp. 

“Why,  are  you  not?”  returned  his 
questioner,  fretted  into  a state  of  the 
utmost  irritation.  “Were  you  not  a 
few  hours  since  sixty  miles  off,  and  in 
the  chapel  to  which  this  good  woman 
goes  to  say  her  prayers?” 

“She  was  there  too,  I think?”  said 
Quilp,  still  perfectly  unmoved.  “ I 
might  say,  if  I was  inclined  to  be  rude, 
how  do  I know  but  you  are  dogging 
my  footsteps.  Yes,  I was  at  chapel. 
What  then?  I’ve  read  in  books  that 
pilgrims  were  used  to  go  to  chapel  be- 
fore they  went  on  journeys,  to  put  up 
petitions  for  their  safe  return.  Wise 
men  ! Journeys  are  very  perilous,  — 
especially  outside  the  coach.  Wheels 
come  off,  horses  take  fright,  coachmen 
drive  too  fast,  coaches  overturn.  I al- 
ways go  to  chapel  before  I start  on 
journeys.  It ’s  the  last  thing  I do  on 
such  occasions,  indeed.” 

That  Quilp  lied  most  heartily  in  this 
speech,  it  needed  no  very  great  pene- 
tration to  discover,  although,  for  any- 
thing that  he  suffered  to  appear  in  his 
face,  voice,  or  manner,  he  might  have 
been  clinging  to  the  truth  with  the 
quiet  constancy  of  a martyr. 

“ In  the  name  of  all  that ’s  calculated 
to  drive  one  crazy,  man,”  said  the  unfor- 
tunate single  gentleman,  “ have  you  not, 
for  some  reason  of  your  own,  taken  up- 
on yourself  my  errand?  Don’t  you  know 
with  what  object  I have  come  here?  and 
if  you  do  know,  can  you  throw  no  light 
upon  it  ? ” 

“ You  think  I ’m  a conjurer,  sir,”  re- 
plied Quilp,  shrugging  up  his  shoulders. 
“ If  I was,  I should  tell  my  own  fortune 
— and  make  it.” 

“ Ah  ! we  have  said  all  we  need  say,  I 
see,”  returned  the  other,  throwing  him- 
self impatiently  upon  a sofa.  “ Pray 
leave  us,  if  you  please.” 


210 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“ Willingly,”  returned  Quilp.  “ Most 
willingly.  Christopher’s  mother,  my 
good  soul,  farewell.  A pleasant  jour- 
ney — back , sir.  Ahem  ! ” 

With  these  parting  words,  and  with 
a grin  upon  his  features  altogether  in- 
describable, but  which  seemed  to  be 
compounded  of  every  monstrous  gri- 
mace of  which  men  or  monkeys  are 
capable,  the  dwarf  slowly  retreated  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

“Oho!”  he  said,  when  he  had  re- 
gained his  own  room,  and  sat  himself 
down  in  a chair  with  his  arms  akimbo. 
“Oho!  Are  you  there,  my  friend? 
In-deed  ! ” 

Chuckling  as  though  in  very  great 
glee,  and  recompensing  himself  for  the 
restraint  he  had  lately  put  upon  his 
countenance  by  twisting  it  into  all 
imaginable  varieties  of  ugliness,  Mr. 
Quilp,  rocking  himself  to  and  fro  in  his 
chair,  and  nursing  his  left  leg  at  the 
same  time,  fell  into  certain  meditations, 
of  which  it  may  be  necessary  to  relate 
the  substance. 

First,  he  reviewed  the  circumstances 
which  had  led  to  his  repairing  to  that 
spot,  which  were  briefly  these.  Drop- 
ping in  at  Mr.  Sampson  Brass’s  office 
on  the  previous  evening,  in  the  absence 
of  that  gentleman  and  his  learned  sis- 
ter, he  had  lighted  upon  Mr.  Swiveller, 
who  chanced  at  the  moment  to  be 
sprjnkling  a glass  of  warm  gin  and 
water  on  the  dust  of  the  law,  and  to  be 
moistening  his  clay,  as  the  phrase  goes, 
rather  copiously.  But  as  clay  in  the 
abstract,  when  too  much  moistened, 
becomes  of  a weak  and  uncertain  con- 
sistency, breaking  down  in  unexpected 

{daces,  retaining  impressions  but  faint- 
y,  and  preserving  no  strength  or  stead- 
iness of  character,  so  Mr.  Swiveller’ s 
clay,  having  imbibed  a considerable 
quantity  of  moisture,  was  in  a very 
loose  and  slippery  state,  insomuch  that 
the  various  ideas  impressed  upon  it 
were  fast  losing  their  distinctive  char- 
acter, and  running  into  each  other.  It 
•is  not  uncommon  for  human  clay  in  this 
condition  to  value  itself,  above  all  things, 
upon  its  great  prudence  and  sagacity  ; 
and  Mr.  Swiveller,  especially  prizing 
himself  upon  these  qualities,  took  oc- 
casion to  remark  that  he  had  made 


strange  discoveries,  in  connection  with 
the  single  gentleman  who  lodged  above, 
which  he  had  determined  to  keep  within 
his  own  bosom,  and  which  neither  tor- 
tures nor  cajolery  should  ever  induce 
him  to  reveal.  Of  this  determination 
Mr.  Quilp  expressed  his  high  approval, 
and,  setting  himself  in  the  same  breath 
to  goad  Mr.  Swiveller  on  to  further 
hints,  soon  made  out  that  the  single 
gentleman  had  been  seen  in  communi- 
cation with  Kit,  and  that  this  was  the 
secret  which  was  never  to  be  disclosed. 

Possessed  of  this  piece  of  informa- 
tion, Mr.  Quilp  directly  supposed  that 
the  single  gentleman  above  stairs  must 
be  the  same  individual  who  had  waited 
on  him,  and,  having  assured  himself  by 
further  inquiries  that  this  surmise  was 
correct,  had  no  difficulty  in  arriving  at 
the  conclusion  that  the  intent  and  ob- 
ject of  his  correspondence  with  Kit  was 
the  recovery  of  his  old  client  and  the 
child.  Burning  with  curiosity  to  know 
what  proceedings  were  afoot,  he  re- 
solved to  pounce  upon  Kit’s  mother  as 
the  person  least  able  to  resist  his  arts, 
and  consequently  the  most  likely  to  be 
entrapped  into  such  revelations  as  he 
sought ; so,  taking  an  abrupt  leave  of 
Mr.  Swiveller,  he  hurried  to  her  house. 
The  good  woman  being  from  home,  he 
made  inquiries  of  a neighbor,  as  Kit 
himself  did  soon  afterwards,  and  being 
directed  to  the  chapel,  betook  himself 
there,  in  order  to  waylay  her,  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  service. 

He  had  not  sat  in  the  chapel  more 
than  a quarter  of  an  hour,  and,  with  his 
eyes  piously  fixed  upon  the  ceiling,  was 
chuckling  inwardly  over  the  joke  of  his 
being  there  at  all,  when  Kit  himself  ap- 
peared. Watchful  as  a lynx,  one  glance 
showed  the  dwarf  that  he  had  come  on 
business.  Absorbed  in  appearance,  as 
we  have  seen,  and  feigning  a profound 
abstraction,  he  noted  every  circunl- 
stance  of  his  behavior,  and  when  he 
withdrew  with  his  family,  shot  out  after 
him.  In  fine,  he  traced  them  to  the 
notary’s  house  ; learnt  the  destination 
of  the  carriage  from  one  of  the  postil- 
ions; and  knowing  that  a fast  night- 
coach  started  for  the  same  place,  at  the 
very  hour  which  was  on  the  point  of 
striking,  from  a street  hard  by,  darted 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


21t 


round  to  the  coach  office  without  more 
ado,  and  took  his  seat  upon  the  roof. 
After  passing  and  repassing  the  carriage 
on  the  road,  and  being  passed  and  re- 
passed by  it  sundry  times  in  the  course 
of  the  night,  according  as  their  stop- 
pages were  longer  or  shorter,  or  their  rate 
of  travelling  varied,  they  reached  the 
town  almost  together.  Quilp  kept  the 
chaise  in  sight,  mingled  with  the  crowd, 
learnt  the  single  gentleman’s  errand 
and  its  failure,  and  having  possessed 
himself  of  all  that  it  was  material  to 
know,  hurried  off,  reached  the  inn  be- 
fore him,  had  the  interview  just  now 
detailed,  and  shut  himself  up  in  the  lit- 
tle room  in  which  he  hastily  reviewed 
all  these  occurrences. 

“ You  are  there,  are  you,  my  friend?  ” 
he  repeated,  greedily  biting  his  nails. 
“ I am  suspected  and  thrown  aside,  and 
Kit ’s  the  confidential  agent,  is  he  ? I 
shall  have  to  dispose  of  him,  I fear.  If 
we  had  come  up  with  them  this  morn- 
ing,” he  continued,  after  a thoughtful 
pause,  “ I was  ready  to  prove  a pretty 
good  claim.  I could  have  made  my 
profit.  But  for  these  canting  hypocrites, 
the  lad  and  his  mother,  I could  get  this 
fiery  gentleman  as  comfortable  into  my 
net  as  our  old  friend  — our  mutual 
friend,  ha  ! ha ! — and  chubby,  rosy 
Nell.  At  the  worst  it ’s  a golden  op- 
portunity, not  to  be  lost.  Let  us  find 
them  first,  and  I ’ll  find  means  of  drain- 
ing you  of  some  of  your  superfluous 
cash,  sir,  while  there  are  prison  bars 
and  bolts  and  locks  to  keep  your  friend 
or  kinsman  safely.  I hate  your  vir- 
tuous people!”  said  the  dwarf,  throwing 
off  a bumper  of  brandy,  and  smacking 
his  lips.  “Ah!  I hate  ’em  every  one!” 

This  was  not  a mere  empty  vaunt, 
but  a deliberate  avowal  of  his  real  senti- 
ments ; for  Mr.  Quilp,  who  loved  no- 
body, had  by  little  and  little  come  to  hate 
everybody  nearly  or  remotely  connected 
with  his  ruined  client:  — the  old  man 
himself,  because  he  had  been  able  to 
deceive  him  and  elude  his  vigilance  ; 
the  child,  because  she  was  the  object  of 
Mrs.  Quilp’s  commiseration  and  con- 
stant self-reproach ; the  single  gentle- 
man, because  of  his  unconcealed  aver- 
sion to  himself ; Kit  and  his  mother, 
most  mortally,  for  the  reasons  already 


shown.  Above  and  beyond  that  gen- 
eral feeling  of  opposition  to  them,  which 
would  have  been  inseparable  from  his 
ravenous  desire  to  enrich  himself  by 
these  altered  circumstances,  Daniel 
Quilp  hated  them  every  one. 

In  this  amiable  mood,  Mr.  Quilp  en- 
livened himself  and  his  hatreds  with 
more  brandy,  and  then,  changing  his 
quarters,  withdrew  to  an  obscure  ale- 
house, under  cover  of  which  seclusion 
he  instituted  all  possible  inquiries  that 
might  lead  to  the  discovery  of  the  old 
man  and  his  grandchild.  But  all  was 
in  vain.  Not  the  slightest  trace  or  clew 
could  be  obtained.  They  had  left  the 
town  by  night ; no  one  had  seen  them 
go  ; no  one  had  met  them  on  the  road ; 
the  driver  of  no  coach,  cart,  or  wagon 
had  seen  any  travellers  answering  their 
description ; nobody  had  fallen  in  with 
them  or  heard  of  them.  Convinced  at 
last  that  for  the  present  all  such  attempts 
were  hopeless,  he  appointed  two  or 
three  scouts,  with  promises  of  large 
rewards  in  case  of  their  forwarding  him 
any  intelligence,  and  returned  to  Lon- 
don by  next  day’s  coach. 

It  was  some  gratification  to  Mr.  Quilp 
to  find,  as  he  took  his  place  upon  the 
roof,  that  Kit’s  mother  was  alone  in- 
side ; from  which  circumstance  he  de- 
rived in  the  course  of  the  journey  much 
cheerfulness  of  spirit,  inasmuch  as  her 
solitary  condition  enabled  him  to  terri- 
fy her  with  many  extraordinary  annoy- 
ances ; such  as  hanging  over  the  side  of 
the  coach  at  the  risk  of  his  life,  and 
staring  in  with  his  great  goggle  eyes, 
which  seemed  in  hers  the  more  horrible 
from  his  face  being  upside  down  ; dodg- 
ing her  in  this  way  from  one  window  to 
another ; getting  nimbly  down  whenever 
they  changed  horses,  and  thrusting  his 
head  in  at  the  window  with  a dismal 
squint ; — which  ingenious  tortures  had 
such  an  effect  upon  Mrs.  Nubbles,  that 
she  was  quite  unable  for  the  time  to 
resist  the  belief  that  Mr.  Quilp  did  in 
his  own  person  represent  and  embody, 
that  Evil  Power  who  was  so  vigorously 
attacked  at  Little  Bethel,  and  who,  by 
reason  of  her  backslidings  in  respect  of 
Astley’s  and  oysters,  was  now  frolick- 
some*  and  rampant. 

Kit,  having  been  apprised  by  letter 


212 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


of  his  mother’s  intended  return,  was 
waiting  for  her  at  the  coach-office  ; and 
great  was  his  surprise  when  he  saw, 
leering  over  the  coachman’s  shoulder 
like  some  familiar  demon,  invisible  to 
all  eyes  but  his,  the  well-known  face  of 
Quilp. 

“How  are  you,  Christopher?” 
croaked  the  dwarf  from  the  coach-top. 
“All  right,  Christopher.  Mother ’s  in- 
side.” 

“Why,  how  did  he  come  here, 
mother?”  whispered  Kit. 

“ I don’t  know  how  he  came  or  why, 
my  dear,”  rejoined  Mrs.  Nubbles,  dis- 
mounting with  her  son’s  assistance, 
“but  he  has  been  a terrifying  of  me  out 
of  my  seven  senses  all  this  blessed 
day.” 

“ He  has?  ” cried  Kit. 

“You  wouldn’t  believe  it,  that  you 
wouldn’t,”  replied  his  mother,  “but 
don’t  say  a word  to  him,  for  I really 
don’t  believe  he ’s  human.  Hush  ! 
Don’t  turn  round  as  if  I was  talking 
of  him,  but  he ’s  a squinting  at  me  now 
in  the  full  blaze  of  the  coach-lamp,  quite 
awful ! ” 

In  spite  of  his  mother’s  injunction, 
Kit  turned  sharply  round  to  look.  Mr. 
Quilp  was  serenely  gazing  at  the  stars, 
quite  absorbed  in  celestial  contempla- 
tion. 

“ O,  he ’s  the  artfullest  creetur  ! ” 
cried  Mrs.  Nubbles.  “But  come  away. 
Don’t  speak  to  him  for  the  world.” 

“Yes,  I will,  mother.  What  non- 
sense. I say,  sir — ” 

Mr.  Quilp  affected  to  start,  and  looked 
smilingly  round. 

“You  let  my  mother  alone,  will 
you?”  said  Kit.  “How  dare  you 
tease  a poor  lone  woman  like  her,  mak- 
ing her  miserable  and  melancholy  as 
if  she  hadn’t  got  enough  to  make  her 
so,  without  you.  Ain’t  you  ashamed  of 
yourself,  you  little  monster?” 

“ Monster  ! ” said  Quilp,  inwardly, 
with  a smile.  “ Ugliest  dwarf  that 
could  be  seen  anywhere  for  a penny  — 
monster  — ah  ! ” 

“You  show  her  any  of  your  impu- 
dence again,”  resumed  Kit,  shoulder- 
ing the  bandbox,  “ and  I tell  you  what, 
Mr.  Quilp,  I won’t  bear  with  you  any 
more.  You  have  no  right  to  do  it. 


I ’m  sure  we  never  interfered  with  you. 
This  is  n’t  the  first  time  ; and  if  ever 
you  worry  or  frighten  her  again,  you  ’ll 
oblige  me  (though  I should  be  very  sor- 
ry to  do  it,  on  account  of  your  size)  to 
beat  you.” 

Quilp  said  not  a word  in  reply,  but 
walking  up  so  close  to  Kit  as  to  bring 
his  eyes  within  two  or  three  inches  of 
his  face,  looked  fixedly  at  him,  retreat- 
ed a little  distance  without  averting 
his  gaze,  approached  again,  again  with- 
drew, and  so  on  for  half  a dozen  times, 
like  a head  in  a phantasmagoria.  Kit 
stood  his  ground  as  if  in  expectation  of 
an  immediate  assault,  but  finding  that 
nothing  came  of  these  gestures,  snapped 
his  fingers  and  walked  away ; his  moth- 
er dragging  him  off  as  fast  as  she  could, 
and,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  news  of 
little  Jacob  and  the  baby,  looking  anx- 
iously over  her  shoulder  to  see  if  Quilp 
were  following. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

Kit’s  mother  might  have  spared  her- 
self the  trouble  of  looking  back  so  of- 
ten, for  nothing  was  further  from  Mr. 
Quilp’s  thoughts  than  any  intention  of 
pursuing  her  and  her  son,  or  renewing 
the  quarrel  with  which  they  had  parted. 
He  went  his  way,  whistling  from  time 
to  time  some  fragments  of  a tune  ; and, 
with  a face  quite  tranquil  and  composed, 
jogged  pleasantly  towards  home  ; enter- 
taining himself  as  he  went  with  visions 
of  the  fears  and  terrors  of  Mrs.  Quilp, 
who,  having  received  no  intelligence  of 
him  for  three  whole  days  and  two  nights, 
and  having  had  no  previous  notice  of 
his  absence,  was  doubtless  by  that  time 
in  a state  of  distraction,  and  constantly 
fainting  away  with  anxiety  and  grief. 

This  facetious  probability  was  so  con- 
genial to  the  dwarfs  humor,  and  so 
exquisitely  amusing  to  him,  that  he 
laughed  as  he  went  along  until  the  tears 
ran  down  his  cheeks ; and  more  than 
once,  when  he  found  himself  in  a by- 
street, vented  his  delight  in  a shrill 
scream,  which,  greatly  terrifying  any 
lonely  passenger  who  happened  to  be 
walking  on  before  him  expecting  nothing 
so  little,  increased  his  mirth,  and  made 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


213 


him  remarkably  cheerful  and  light- 
hearted. 

Jn  this  happy  flow  of  spirits  Mr.  Quilp 
reached  Tower  Hill,  when,  gazing  up 
at  the  window  of  his  own  sitting-room, 
he  thought  he  descried  more  light  than 
is  usual  in  a house  of  mourning.  Draw- 
ing nearer,  and  listening  attentively,  he 
could  hear  several  voices  in  earnest  con- 
versation, among  which  he  could  dis- 
tinguish, not  only  those  of  his  wife 
and  mother-in-law,  but  the  tongues  of 
men. 

“ Ha  ! ” cried  the  jealous  dwarf, 
“ what ’s  this  ! Do  they  entertain 
such  visitors  while  I ’m  away  ? ” 

A smothered  cough  from  above  was 
the  reply.  He  felt  in  his  pockets  for 
his  latch-key,  but  had  forgotten  it. 
There  was  no  resource  but  to  knock  at 
the  door. 

“A  light  in  the  passage,”  said  Quilp, 
peeping  through  the  keyhole.  “A 
very  soft  knock  ; and,  by  your  leave, 
my  lady,  I may  yet  steal  upon  you  una- 
wares. So-ho  ! ” 

A very  low  and  gentle  rap  received 
no  answer  from  within.  But  after  a 
second  application  to  the  knocker,  no 
louder  than  the  first,  the  door  was  softly 
opened  by  the  boy  from  the  wharf, 
whom  Quilp  instantly  gagged  with  one 
hand,  and  dragged  into  the  street  with 
the  other. 

“You’ll  throttle  me,  master,”  whis- 
pered the  boy.  “ Let  go,  will  you.” 

“Who’s  up  stairs,  you  dog?”  re- 
torted Quilp,  in  the  same  tone.  “Tell 
me.  And  don’t  speak  above  your 
breath,  or  I ’ll  choke  you  in  good  ear- 
nest.” 

The  boy  could  only  point  to  the  win- 
dow, and  reply  with  a stifled  giggle, 
expressive  of  such  intense  enjoyment 
that  Quilp  clutched  him  by  the  throat 
again,  and  might  have  carried  his  threat 
into  execution,  or  at  least  have  made 
very  good  progress  towards  that  end, 
but  for  the  boy’s  nimbly  extricating 
himself  from  his  grasp,  and  fortifying 
himself  behind  the  nearest  post,  at 
which,  after  some  fmitless  attempts  to 
catch  him  by  the  hair  of  his  head,  his 
master  was  obliged  to  come  to  a parley. 

“ Will  you  answer  me?”  said  Quilp. 
“ What ’s  going  on,  above?” 


“ You  won’t  let  one  speak,”  replied 
the  boy.  “ They  — ha,  ha,  ha  ! — they 
think  you  ’re  — you  ’re  dead.  Ha,  ha, 
ha  ! ” 

“ Dead  ! ” cried  Quilp,  relaxing  into 
a grim  laugh  himself.  “No.  Do  they  ? 
Do  they,  really,  you  dog?” 

“ They  think  you  ’re  — you  ’re 
drowned,”  replied  the  boy,  who  in  his 
malicious  nature  had  a strong  infusion 
of  his  master.  “You  was  last  seen  on 
the  brink  of  the  wharf,  and  they  think 
you  tumbled  over.  Ha,  ha  ! ” 

The  prospect  of  playing  the  spy  under 
such  delicious  circumstances,  and  of 
disappointing  them  all  by  walking  in 
alive,  gave  more  delight  to  Quilp  than 
the  greatest  stroke  of  good  fortune  could 
possibly  have  inspired  him  with.  He 
was  no  less  tickled  than  his  hopeful 
assistant,  and  they  both  stood  for  some 
seconds  grinning  and  gasping,  and 
wagging  their  heads  at  each  other,  on 
either  side  of  the  post,  like  an  unmatch- 
able  pair  of  Chinese  idols. 

“ Not  a word,”  said  Quilp,  making 
towards  the  door  on  tiptoe.  “Not  a 
sound,  not  so  much  as  a creaking 
board,  or  a stumble  against  a cobweb. 
Drowned,  eh,  Mrs.  Quilp?  Drowned  ! ” 
So  saying,  he  blew  out  the  candle, 
kicked  off  his  shoes,  and  groped  his 
way  up  stairs ; leaving  his  delighted 
young  friend  in  an  ecstasy  of  summer- 
sets  on  the  pavement. 

The  bedroom  door  on  the  staircase 
being  unlocked,  Mr.  Quilp  slipped  in, 
and  planted  himself  behind  the  door  of 
communication  between  that  chamber 
and  the  sitting-room,  which  standing 
ajar  to  render  both  more  airy,  and  hav- 
ing a very  convenient  chink  (of  which 
he  had  often  availed  himself  for  pur- 
poses of  espial,  and  had  indeed  enlarged 
with  his  pocket-knife),  enabled  him  not 
only  to  hear,  but  to  see  distinctly,  what 
was  passing. 

Applying  his  eye  to  this  convenient 
place,  he  descried  Mr.  Brass  seated  at 
the  table,  with  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and 
the  case-bottle  of  rum  — his  own  case- 
bottle,  and  his  own  particular  Jamaica  — 
convenient  to  his  hand  ; with  hot  water, 
fragrant  lemons,  white  lump  sugar,  and 
all  things  fitting  ; from  which  choice 
materials,  Sampson,  by  no  means  in- 


214 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


sensible  to  their  claims  upon  his  atten- 
tion, had  compounded  a mighty  glass 
of  punch  reeking  hot  ; which  he  was  at 
that  very  moment  stirring  up  with  a 
teaspoon,  and  contemplating  with  looks 
in  which  a faint  assumption  of  senti- 
mental regret  struggled  but  weakly  with 
a bland  and  comfortable  joy.  At  the 
same  table,  with  both  her  elbows  upon 
it,  was  Mrs.  Jiniwin  ; no  longer  sipping 
other  people’s  punch  feloniously  with 
teaspoons,  but  taking  deep  draughts 
from  a jorum  of  her  own  ; while  her 
daughter  — not  exactly  with  ashes  on 
her  head,  or  sackcloth  on  her  back,  but 
preserving  a very  decent  and  becoming 
appearance  of  sorrow,  nevertheless  — 
was  reclining  in  an  easy-chair,  and 
soothing  her  grief  with  a smaller  allow- 
ance of  the  same  glib  liquid.  There 
were  also  present  a couple  of  water- 
side men,  bearing  between  them  cer- 
tain machines  called  drags.  Even  these 
fellows  were  accommodated  with  a stiff 
glass  apiece  ; and  as  they  drank  with  a 
great  relish,  and  were  naturally  of  a 
red-nosed,  pimpled-faced,  convivial  look, 
their  presence  rather  increased  than  de- 
tracted from  that  decided  appearance 
of  comfort  which  was  the  great  char- 
acteristic of  the  party. 

“ If  I could  poison  that  dear  old  lady’s 
rum  and  water,”  murmured  Quilp,  “ I ’d 
die  happy.” 

“ Ah  ! ” said  Mr.  Brass,  breaking  the 
silence,  and  raising  his  eyes  to  the 
ceiling  with  a sigh,  “ who  knows  but 
he  may  be  looking  down  upon  us  now  ! 
Who  knows  but  he  may  be  surveying 
of  us  from  — from  somewheres  or  an- 
other, and  contemplating  us  with  a 
watchful  eye!  O Lor!” 

Here  Mr.  Brass  stopped  to  drink  half 
his  punch,  and  then  resumed  ; looking 
at  the  other  half,  as  he  spoke,  with  a 
dejected  smile. 

“ I can  almost  fancy,”  said  the  law- 
yer, shaking  his  head,  “ that  I see  his 
eye  glistening  down  at  the  very  bottom 
of  my  liquor.  When  shall  we  look 
upon  his  like  again?  Never,  never! 
One  minute  we  are  here,” — holding 
his  tumbler  before  his  eyes,  — “ the 
next  we  are  there,” — gulping  down 
its  contents,  and  striking  himself  em- 
phatically a little  below  the  chest,  — 


“in  the  silent  tomb.  To  think  that  I 
should  be  drinking  his  very  rum  ! It 
seems  like  a dream.” 

With  the  view,  no  doubt,  of  testing 
the  reality  of  his  position,  Mr.  Brass 
pushed  his  tumbler  as  he  spoke  to- 
wards Mrs.  Jiniwin  for  the  purpose  of 
being  replenished  ; and  turned  towards 
the  attendant  mariners. 

“The  search  has  been  quite  unsuc- 
cessful, then  ? ” 

“Quite,  master.  But  I should  say 
that  if  he  turns  up  anywhere,  he  ’ll 
come  ashore  somewhere  about  Grinidge 
to-morrow,  at  ebb  tide.  Eh,  mate?” 
The  other  gentleman  assented,  ob- 
serving that  he  was  ‘expected  at  the 
Hospital,  and  that  several  pensioners 
wrould  be  ready  to  receive  him  when- 
ever he  arrived. 

“ Then  we  have  nothing  for  it  but 
resignation,”  said  Mr.  Brass,  — “noth- 
ing but  resignation  and  expectation. 
It  w'ould  be  a comfort  to  have  his 
body  ; it  w'ould  be  a dreary  comfort.” 
“ O,  beyond  a doubt,”  assented  Mrs. 
Jiniwin,  hastily  ; “ if  we  once  had  that, 
we  should  be  quite  sure.” 

“With  regard  to  the  descriptive  ad- 
vertisement,” said  Sampson  Brass,  tak- 
ing up  his  pen.  “ It  is  a melancholy 
pleasure  to  recall  his  traits.  Respect- 
ing his  legs,  now  — ?” 

“ Crooked,  certainly,”  said  Mrs.  Jini- 
win. 

“ Do  you  think  they  were  crooked?  ” 
said  Brass,  in  an  insinuating  tone.  “I 
think  I see  them  now  coming  up  the 
street  very  wide  apart,  in  nankeen  pan- 
taloons a little  shrunk  and  without 
straps.  Ah  ! what  a vale  of  tears  we 
live  in.  Do  we  say  crooked  ? ” 

“ I think  they  were  a little  so,”  ob- 
served Mrs.  Quilp,  with  a sob. 

“ Legs  crooked,”  said  Brass,  writ- 
ing as  he  spoke.  “ Large  head,  short 
body,  legs  crooked  — ” 

“Very  crooked,”  suggested  Mrs. 
Jiniwin. 

“We’ll  not  say  very  crooked, 
ma’am,”  said  Brass,  piously.  “Let 
us  not  bear  hard  ^ipon  the  weaknesses 
of  the  deceased.  He  is  gone,  ma’am, 
to  where  his  legs  will  never  come  in 
question.  We  will  content  ourselves 
w’ith  crooked,  Mrs.  Jiniwin.” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


215 


“ I thought  you  wanted  the  truth,” 
said  the  old  lady.  “That’s  all.” 
“Bless  your  eyes,  how  I love  you,” 
muttered  Quilp.  “ There  she  goes 
again.  Nothing  but  punch  ! ” 

**  This  is  an  occupation,”  said  the 
lawyer,  laying  down  his  pen  and  emp- 
tying his  glass,  “which  seems  to  bring 
him  before  my  eyes  like  the  Ghost  of 
Hamlet’s  father,  in  the  very  clothes 
that  he  wore  on  work-a-days.  His 
coat,  his  waistcoat,  his  shoes  and  stock- 
ings, his  trousers,  his  hat,  his  wit  and 
humor,  his  pathos  and  his  umbrella, 
— all  come  before  me  like  visions  of  my 
youth.  His  linen  ! ” said  Mr.  Brass, 
smiling  fondly  at  the  wall,  — “ his  linen 
which  was  always  of  a particular  color, 
for  such  was  his  whim  and  fancy,  — 
how  plain  I see  his  linen  now  ! ” 

“ You  had  better  go  on,  sir,”  said 
Mrs.  Jiniwin,  impatiently. 

“ True,  ma’am,  true,”  cried  Mr. 
Brass.  “ Our  faculties  must  not  freeze 
with  grief.  I ’ll  trouble  you  for  a 
little  more  of  that,  ma’am.  A question 
now  arises  with  relation  to  his  nose.” 

“ Flat,”  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

“ Aquiline  ! ” cried.  Quilp,  thrusting 
in  his  head,  and  striking  the  feature 
with  his  fist,  — “ aquiline,  you  hag. 
Do  you  see  it?  Do  you  call  this  flat? 
Do  you?  Eh?” 

“ O capital,  capital ! ” shouted  Brass, 
from  the  mere  force  of  habit.  “ Excel- 
lent ! How  very  good  he  is  ! He ’s  a 
most  remarkable  man, — so  extremely 
whimsical  ! Such  an  amazing  power 
of  taking  people  by  surprise  ! ” 

Quilp  paid  no  regard  whatever  to 
these  compliments,  nor  to  the  dubious 
and  frightened  look  into  which  the 
lawyer  gradually  subsided,  nor  to  the 
shrieks  of  his  wife  and  mother-in-law, 
nor  to  the  latter’s  running  frpm  the 
room,  nor  to  the  former’s  fainting  away. 
Keeping  his  eye  fixed  on  Sampson 
Brass,  he  walked  up  to  the  table,  and 
beginning  with  his  glass,  drank  off  the 
contents,  and  went  regularly  round  un- 
til he  had  emptied  the  other  two,  when 
he  seized  the  case-bottle,  and,  hugging 
it  under  his  arm,  surveyed  him  with  a 
most  extraordinary  leer. 

“ Not  yet,  Sampson,”  said  Quilp. 
“Not  just  yet  I ” 


“ O,  very  good  indeed  ! ” cried  Brass, 
recovering  ms  spirits  a little.  “ Ha, 
ha,  ha  ! O,  exceedingly  good  ! There ’s 
not  another  man  alive  who  could  carry 
it  off  like  that.  A most  difficult  posi- 
tion to  carry  off.  But  he  has  such  a 
flow  of  good-humor,  — such  an  amazing 
flow  ! ” 

“ Good  night,”  said  the  dwarf,  nod- 
ding expressively. 

“ Good  night,  sir,  good  night,”  cried 
the  lawyer,  retreating  backwards  to- 
wards the  door.  “ This  is  a joyful 
occasion  indeed,  extremely  joyful.  Ha, 
ha,  ha  ! O,  very  rich,  very  rich  indeed, 
re-markably  so ! ” 

Waiting  until  Mr.  Brass’s  ejacula- 
tions died  away  in  the  distance  (for  he 
continued  to  pour  them  out,  all  the  way 
down  stairs),  Quilp  advanced  towards 
the  two  men,  who  yet  lingered  in  a kind 
of  stupid  amazement. 

“ Have  you  been  dragging  the  river 
all  day,  gentlemen  ? ” said  the  dwarf, 
holding  the  door  open  with  great  polite- 
ness. 

“ And  yesterday,  too,  master.” 

“ Dear  me,  you  ’ve  had  a deal  of  trou- 
ble. Pray  consider  everything  yours 
that  you  find  upon  the  — upon  the 
body.  Good  night.” 

The  men  looked  at  each  other,  but 
had  evidently  no  inclination  to  argue 
the  point  just  then,  and  shuffled  out  of 
the  room.  This  speedy  clearance  ef- 
fected, Quilp  locked  the  doors ; and, 
still  embracing  the  case-bottle  with 
shrugged-up  shoulders  and  folded  arms, 
stcfod  looking  at  his  insensible  wife 
like  a dismounted  nightmare. 


CHAPTER  L. 

.Matrimonial differences  are  usually 
discussed  by  the  parties  concerned  in 
the  form  of  dialogue,  in  which  the  lady 
bears  at  least  her  full  half-share.  Those 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Quilp,  however,  were 
an  exception  to  the  general  rule  ; the 
remarks  which  they  occasioned  being 
limited  to  a long  soliloquy  on  the  part 
of  the  gentleman,  with  perhaps  a few 
deprecatorv  observations  from  the  lady, 
not  extending  beyond  a trembling  mon- 


2l6 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


osyllable  uttered  at  long  intervals,  and 
in  a very  submissive  and 'humble  tone. 
On  the  present  occasion,  Mrs.  Quilp 
did  not  for  a long  time  venture  even  on 
this  gentle  defence,  but,  when  she  had 
recovered  from  her  fainting-fit,  sat  in  a 
tearful  silence,  meekly  listening  to  the 
reproaches  of  her  lord  and  master. 

Of  these  Mr.  Quilp  delivered  himself 
with  the  utmost  animation  and  rapidity, 
and  with  so  many  distortions  of  limb 
and  feature,  that  even  his  wife,  although 
tolerably  well  accustomed  to  his  pro- 
ficiency in  these  respects,  was  wellnigh 
beside  herself  with  alarm.  But  the  Ja- 
maica rum,  and  the  joy  of  having  occa- 
sioned a heavy  disappointment,  by  de- 
grees cooled  Mr.  Quilp’s  wrath  ; which, 
from  being  at  savage  heat,  dropped 
slowly  to  the  bantering  or  chuckling 
point,  at  which  it  steadily  remained. 

“ So  you  thought  I was  dead  and 
gone,  did  you?”  said  Quilp.  “You 
thought  you  were  a widow,  eh?  Ha, 
ha,  ha,  you  jade  ! ” 

“ Indeed,  Quilp,”  returned  his  wife. 
“ I ’m  very  sorry  — ” 

“Who  doubts  it  ! ” cried  the  dwarf. 
“You  very  sorry!  to  be  sure  you  are. 
Who  doubts  that  you  ’re  very  sorry  ! ” 

“ I don’t  mean  sorry  that  you  have 
come  home  again  alive  and  well,”  said 
his  wife,  “ but  sorry  that  I should  have 
been  led  into  such  a belief.  I am  glad 
to  see  you,  Quilp  ; indeed  I am.” 

In  truth  Mrs.  Quilp  did  seem  a great 
deal  more  glad  to  behold  her  lord  than 
might  have  been  expected,  and  did 
evince  a degree  of  interest  in  his  safety 
which,  all  things  considered,  was  rather 
unaccountable.  Upon  Quilp,  however, 
this  circumstance  made  no  impression 
further  than  as  it  moved  him  to  snap 
his  fingers  close  to  his  wife’s  eyes,  writh 
divers  grins  of  triumph  and  derision. 

“ How  could  you  go  away  so  long, 
without  saying  a word  to  me  or  letting 
me  hear  of  you  or  know  anything  about 
you  ? ” asked  the  poor  little  woman, 
sobbing.  “ How  could  you  be  so  cruel, 
Quilp  ? ” 

“ How  could  I be  so  cruel  ! cruel  ! ” 
cried  the  dwarf.  “ Because  I was  in 
the  humor.  I ’m  in  the  humor  now. 
I shall  be  cruel  when  I like.  I ’m  go- 
ing away  again.” 


“Not  again ! ” 

“Yes,  again.  I ’m  going  away  now. 
I ’m  off  directly.  I mean  to  go  and 
live  wherever  the  fancy  seizes  me,  — at 
the  wharf,  at  the  counting-house,  and 
be  a jolly  bachelor.  You  were  a wid- 
ow in  anticipation.  Damme,”  screamed 
the  dwarf,  “ I ’ll  be  a bachelor  in  ear- 
nest.” 

“You  can’t  be  serious,  Quilp,”  sobbed 
his  wife. 

“ I tell  you,”  said  the  dwarf,  exulting 
in  his  project,  “ that  I ’ll  be  a bachelor, 
a devil-may-carebachelor ; and  I ’ll  have 
my  bachelor’s  hall  at  the  counting- 
house,  and  at  such  times  come  near  it 
if  you  dare.  And  mind  too  that  I don’t 
pounce  in  upon  you  at  unseasonable 
hours  again,  for  I ’ll  be  a spy  upon 
you,  and  come  and  go  like  a mole  or  a 
weasel.  Tom  Scott, — where’s  Tom 
Scott  ? ” 

“ Here  I am,  master,”  cried  the  voice 
of  the  boy,  as  Quilp  threw  up  the  win- 
dow. 

“Wait  there,  you  dog,”  returned  the 
dwarf,  “to  carry  a bachelor’s  portman- 
teau. Pack  it  up,  Mrs.  Quilp.  Knock 
up  the  dear  old  lady  to  help  ; knock 
her  up.  Hallo  there  ! Hallo  ! ” 

With  these  exclamations,  Mr.  Quilp 
caught  up  the  poker,  and,  hurrying  to 
the  door  of  the  good  lady’s  sleeping- 
closet,  beat  upon  it  therewith  until  she 
awoke  in  inexpressible  terror,  thinking 
that  her  amiable  son-in-law  surely  in- 
tended to  murder  her  in  justification  of 
the  legs  she  had  slandered.  Impressed 
with  this  idea,  she  was  no  sooner  fairly 
awake  than  she  screamed  violently,  and 
would  have  quickly  precipitated  her- 
self out  of  the  window  and  through  a 
neighboring  skylight,  if  her  daughter 
had  not  hastened  in  to  undeceive  her, 
and  implore  her  assistance.  Somewhat 
reassured  by  her  account  of  the  service 
she  was  required  to  render,  Mrs.  Jini- 
win  made  her  appearance  in  a flannel 
dressing-gown ; and  both  mother  and 
daughter,  trembling  with  terror  and 
cold, — for  the  night  was  now  far  ad- 
vanced,— obeyed  Mr.  Quilp’s  direc- 
tions in  submissive  silence.  Prolong- 
ing his  preparations  as  much  as  possi- 
ble, for  their  greater  comfort,  that  ec- 
centric gentleman  superintended  the 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


217 


packing  of  his  wardrobe,  and,  having 
added  to  it  with  his  own  hands  a plate, 
knife  and  fork,  spoon,  teacup  and  sau- 
cer, and  other  small  household  matters 
of  that  nature,  strapped  up  the  portman- 
teau, took  it  on  his  shoulders,  and  ac- 
tually marched  off  without  another 
word,  and  with  the  case-bottle  (which 
he  had  never  once  put  down)  still 
tightly  clasped  under  his  arm.  Con- 
signing his  heavier  burden  to  the  care 
of  Tom  Scott  when  he  reached  the 
street,  taking  a dram  from  the  bottle 
for  his  own  encouragement,  and  giving 
the  boy  a rap  on  the  head  with  it  as  a 
small  taste  for  himself,  Quilp  very  de- 
liberately led  the  way  to  the  wharf,  and 
reached  it  at  between  three  and  four 
o’clock  in  the  morning. 

“Snug!”  said  Quilp,  when  he  had 
groped  his  way  to  the  wooden  counting- 
house,  and  opened  the  door  with  a key 
he  carried  about  with  him.  “ Beauti- 
fully snug  ! Call  me  at  eight,  you  dog.” 

With  no  more  formal  leave-taking  or 
explanation,  he  clutched  the  portman- 
teau, shut  the  door  on  his  attendant, 
and  climbing  on  the  desk,  and,  rolling 
himself  up  as  round  as  a hedgehog  in 
an  old  boat-cloak,  fell  fast  asleep. 

Being  roused  in  the  morning  at  the 
appointed  time,  and  roused  with  diffi- 
culty after  his  late  fatigues,  Quilp  in- 
structed Tom  Scott  to  make  a fire  in 
the  yard  of  sundry  pieces  of  old  timber, 
and  to  prepare  some  coffee  for  break- 
fast ; for  the  better  furnishing  of  which 
repast  he  intrusted  him  with  certain 
small  moneys,  to  be  expended  in  the 
purchase  of  hot  rolls,  butter,  sugar, 
Yarmouth  bloaters,  and  other  articles 
of  housekeeping  ; so  that  in  a few  min- 
utes a savory  meal  was  smoking  on  the 
board.  With  this  substantial  comfort, 
the  dwarf  regaled  himself  to  his  heart’s 
content  ; and  being  highly  satisfied 
with  this  free  and  gypsy  mode  of  life 
(which  he  had  often  meditated,  as  offer- 
ing, whenever  he  chose  to  avail  himself 
of  it,  an  agreeable  freedom  from  the  re- 
straints of  matrimony,  and  a choice 
means  of  keeping  Mrs.  Quilp  and  her 
mother  in  a state  of  incessant  agitation 
and  suspense),  bestirred  himself  to  im- 
prove his  retreat,  and  render  it  more 
commodious  and  comfortable. 


With  this  view,  he  issued  forth  to  a 
place  hard  by,  where  sea-stores  were 
sold,  purchased  a second-hand  ham- 
mock, and  had  it  slung  in  seaman-like 
fashion  from  the  ceiling  of  the  counting- 
house.  He  also  caused  to  be  erected, 
in  the  same  mouldy  cabin,  an  old  ship’s 
stove  with  a rusty  funnel  to  carry  the 
smoke  through  the  roof,  and  these  ar- 
rangements completed,  surveyed  them 
with  ineffable  delight. 

“ I ’ve  got  a country-house  like  Rob- 
inson Crusoe,”  said  the  dwarf,  ogling 
the  accommodations ; “a  solitary,  se- 
questered, desolate-island  sort  of  spot, 
where  I can  be  quite  alone  when  I have 
business  on  hand,  and  be  secure  from 
all  spies  and  listeners.  Nobody  near 
me  here  but  rats,  and  they  are  fine, 
stealthy,  secret  fellows.  I shall  be  as 
merry  as  a grig  among  these  gentry. 
I ’ll  look  out  for  one  like  Christo- 
pher, and  poison  him.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 
Business,  though,  — business.  We  must 
be  mindful  of  business  in  the  midst  of 
pleasure,  and  the  time  has  flown  this 
morning,  I declare.” 

Enjoining  Tom  Scott  to  await  his  re- 
turn, and  not  to  stand  upon  his  head, 
or  throw  a summerset,  or  so  much  as 
walk  upon  his  hands  meanwhile,  on 
pain  of  lingering  torments,  the  dwarf 
threw  himself  into  a boat,  and  crossing 
to  the  other  side  of  the  river,  and  then 
speeding  away  on  foot,  reached  Mr. 
Swiveller’s  usual  house  of  entertain- 
ment in  Bevis  Marks  just  as  that  gen- 
tleman sat  down  alone  to  dinner  in  its 
dusky  parlor. 

“Dick,”  said  the  dwarf,  thrusting 
his  head  in  at  the  door,  — “my  pet, 
my  pupil,  the  apple  of  my  eye,  hey, 
hey  ! ” 

“ O,  you  ’re  there,  are  you?  ” returned 
Mr.  Swiveller.  “ How  are  you?  ” 
“How’s  Dick?”  retorted  Quilp. 
“ How ’s  the  cream  of  clerkship,  eh  ? ” 

“ Why,  rather  sour,  sir,”  replied  Mr. 
Swiveller.  “ Beginning  to  border  up- 
on cheesiness,  in  fact.” 

“What’s  the  matter?”  said  the 
dwarf,  advancing.  “ Has  Sally  proved 
unkind.  ‘ Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so 
smart,  there ’s  none  like  — ’ eh,  Dick  ! ” 
“ Certainly  not,”  replied  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler, eating  his  dinner  with  great  gravity, 


218 


THL  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“ none  like  her.  She ’s  the  sphinx  of 
private  life,  is  Sally  B.” 

“You’re  out  of  spirits,”  said  Quilp, 
drawing  up  a chair.  “ What ’s  the  mat- 
ter?” 

“The  law  don’t  agree  with  me,”  re- 
turned Dick.  “It  isn’t  moist  enough, 
and  there’s  too  much  confinement.  I 
have  been  thinking  of  running  away.” 

“ Bah  ! ” said  the  dwarf.  “ Where 
would  you  run  to,  Dick  ? ” 

“I  don’t  know,”  returned  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller.  “Towards  Highgate,  I suppose. 
Perhaps  the  bellsmight  strike  up,  ‘ Turn 
again,  Swiveller,  Lord  Mayor  of  Lon- 
don.’ Whittington’s  name  was  Dick. 
I wish  cats  were  scarcer.” 

Quilp  looked  at  his  companion  with 
his  eyes  screwed  up  into  a comical 
expression  of  curiosity,  and  patiently 
awaited  his  further  explanation  ; upon 
which,  however,  Mr.  Swiveller  appeared 
in  no  hurry  to  enter,  as  he  ate  a very 
long  dinner  in.  profound  silence,  finally 
pushed  away  his  plate,  threw  himself 
back  into  his  chair,  folded  his  arms, 
and  stared  ruefully  at  the  fire,  in  which 
some  ends  of  cigars  were  smoking  on 
their  own  account,  and  sending  up  a 
fragrant  odor. 

“ Perhaps  you’d  like  a bit  of  cake,” 
said  Dick,  at  last  turning  to  the  dwarf. 
“You’re  quite  welcome  to  it.  You 
ought  to  be,  for  it’s  of  your  mak- 
ing.” 

“ What  do  you  mean?  ” said  Quilp. 

Mr.  Swiveller  replied  by  taking  from 
his  pocket  a small  and  very  greasy  par- 
cel, slowly  unfolding  it,  and  displaying 
a little  slab  of  plum  cake,  extremely  in- 
digestible in  appearance,  and  bordered 
with  a paste  of  white  sugar  an  inch  and 
a half  deep. 

“What  should  you  say  this  was?” 
demanded  Mr.  Swiveller. 

“ It  looks  like  bride-cake,”  replied 
the  dwarf,  grinning. 

“ And  whose  should  you  say  it  was?  ” 
inquired  Mr.  Swiveller,  rubbing  the 
pastry  against  his  nose  with  a dreadful 
calmness.  “ Whose  ? ” 

“ Not  — ” 

“Yes,”  said  Dick,  “the  same.  You 
need  n’t  mention  her  name.  There ’s 
no  such  name  now.  Her  name  is 
Cheggs  now,  Sophy  Cheggs.  Yet  loved 


I as  man  never  loved  that  hadn’t 
wooden  legs,  and  my  heart,  my  heart  is 
breaking  for  the  love  of  Sophy  Cheggs.” 

With  this  extemporary  adaptation  of  a 
popular  ballad  to  the  distressing  circum- 
stances of  his  own  case,  Mr.  Swiveller 
folded  up  the  parcel  again,  beat  it  very 
flat  between  the  palms  of  his  hands, 
thrust  it  into  his  breast,  buttoned  his 
coat  over  it,  and  folded  his  arms  upon 
the  whole. 

“ Now,  I hope  you  ’re  satisfied,  sir,” 
said  Dick  ; “and  I hope  Fred ’s  satis- 
fied. You  went  partners  in  the  mis- 
chief, and  I hope  you  like  it.  This  is 
the  triumph  I was  to  have,  is  it  ? It ’s 
like  the  old  country  dance  of  that  name, 
where  there  are  two  gentlemen  to  one 
lady,  and  one  has  her,  and  the  other 
hasn’t,  but  comes  limping  up  behind  to 
make  out  the  figure.  But  it ’s  Destiny, 
and  mine ’s  a crusher  ! ” 

Disguising  his  secret  joy  in  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller’s  defeat,  Daniel  Quilp  adopted  the 
surest  means  of  soothing  him  by  ring- 
ing the  bell,  and  ordering  in  a supply  of 
rosy  wine  (that  is  to  say,  of  its  usual  rep- 
resentative), which  he  put  about  with 
great  alacrity,  calling  upon  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller to  pledge  him  in  various  toasts 
derisive  of  Cheggs,  and  eulogistic  of 
the  happiness  of  single  men.  Such 
was  their  impression  on  Mr.  Swiveller, 
coupled  with  the  reflection  that  no  man 
could  oppose  his  destiny,  that  in  a very 
short  space  of  time  his  spirits  rose  sur- 
prisingly, and  he  was  enabled  to  give 
the  dwarf  an  account  of  the  receipt  of 
the  cake,  which,  it  appeared,  had  been 
brought  to  Bevis  Marks  by  the  two  sur- 
viving Miss  Wackleses  in  person,  and 
delivered  at  the  office  door  with  much 
giggling  and  joyfulness.  . 

“ Ha  ! ” said  Quilp.  “ It  will  be  our 
turn  to  giggle  soon.  And  that  reminds 
me  — you  spoke  of  young  Trent  — 
where  is  he?”  * 

Mr.  Swiveller  explained  that  his  re- 
spectable friend  had  recently  accepted  a 
responsible  situation  in  a locomotive 
gaming-house,  and  was  at  that  time  ab- 
sent on  a professional  tour  among  the 
adventurous  spirits  of  Great  Britain. 

“ That ’s  unfortunate,”  said  the 
dwarf,  “ for  I came,  in  fact,  to  ask  you 
about  him.  A thought  has  occurred 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


219 


to  me.  Dick,  your  friend  over  the 
way  — ” 

“ Which  friend?  ” 

“ In  the  first  floor.” 

“Yes?” 

“ Your  friend  in  the  first  floor,  Dick, 
may  know  him.” 

“ No  he  don’t,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
shaking  his  head. 

“ Don’t.  No,  because  he  has  never 
seen  him,”  rejoined  Quilp  ; “but  if  we 
were  to  bring  them  together,  who 
knows,  Dick,  but  Fred,  properly  intro- 
duced, would  serve  his  turn  almost  as 
well  as  little  Nell  or  her  grandfather? 
Who  knows  but  it  might  make  the 
young  fellow’s  fortune,  and,  through 
him,  yours,  eh?” 

“ Why,  the  fact  is,  you  see,”  said 
Mr.  Swiveller,  “ that  they  have  been 
brought  together.” 

“ Have  been ! ” cried  the  dwarf, 
looking  suspiciously  at  his  companion. 
“ Through  whose  means?  ” 

“ Through  mine,”  said  Dick,  slightly 
confused.  “Didn’t  I mention  it  to 
you  the  last  time  you  called  over  yon- 
der ? ” 

“You  know  you  didn’t,”  returned 
the  dwarf. 

“ I believe  you  ’re  right,”  said  Dick. 
“No.  I didn’t,  I recollect.  O yes,  I 
brought  ’em  together  that  very  day.  It 
was  Fred’s  suggestion.” 

“ And  what  came  of  it  ? ” 

“ Why,  instead  of  my  friend’s  burst- 
ing into  tears  when  he  knew  who  Fred 
was,  embracing  him  kindly,  and  telling 
him  that  he  was  his  grandfather,  or  his 
grandmother  in  disguise,  (which  we  ful- 
ly expected,)  he  flew  into  a tremendous 
passion ; called  him  all  manner  of 
names  ; said  it  was  in  a great  measure 
his  fault  that  little  Nell  and  the  old 
gentleman  had  ever  been  brought  to 
poverty  ; did  n’t  hint  at  our  taking  any- 
thing to  drink  ; and  — and,  in  short, 
rather  turned  us  out  of  the  room  than 
otherwise.” 

“ That ’s  strange,”  said  the  dwarf, 
musing. 

“ So  we  remarked  to  each  other  at 
the  time,”  returned  Dick,  coolly,  “but 
quite  true.” 

Quilp  was  plainly  staggered  by  this 
intelligence,  over  which  he  brooded  for 


some  time  in  moody  silence,  often  rais- 
ing his  eyes  to  Mr.  Swiveller’^  face,  and 
sharply  scanning  its  expression.  As  he 
could  read  in  it,  however,  no  additional 
information  or  anything  to  lead  him  to 
believe  he  had  spoken  falsely,  and  as 
Mr.  Swiveller,  left  to  his  own  medita- 
tions, sighed  deeply,  and  was  evidently 
growing  maudlin  on  the  subject  of  Mrs. 
Cheggs,  the  dwarf  soon  broke  up  the 
conference  and  took  his  departure,  leav- 
ing the  bereaved  one  to  his  melancholy 
ruminations. 

“ Have  been  brought  together,  eh  ? ” 
said  the  dwarf,  as  he  walked  the  streets 
alone.  “My  friend  has  stolen  a march 
upon  me.  It  led  him  to  nothing,  and 
therefore  is  no  great  matter,  save  in 
the  intention.  I ’m  glad  he  has  lost 
his  mistress.  Ha,  ha  ! The  blockhead 
mustn’t  leave  the  law  at  present.  I ’m 
sure  of  him  where  he  is,  whenever  I 
want  him  for  my  own  purposes,  and, 
besides,  he ’s  a good  unconscious  spy 
on  Brass,  and  tells,  in  his  cups,  all  that 
he  sees  and  hears.  You  ’re  useful  to 
me,  Dick,  and  cost  nothing  but  a little 
treating  now  and  then.  I am  not  sure 
that  it  may  not  be  worth  while  before 
long  to  take  credit  with  the  stranger, 
Dick,  by  discovering  your  designs  upon 
the  child ; but  for  the  present  we  ’ll 
remain  the  best  friends  in  file  world, 
with  your  good  leave.” 

Pursuing  these  thoughts,  and  gasp- 
ing as  he  went  along,  after  his  own  pe- 
culiar fashion,  Mr.  Quilp  once  more 
crossed  the  Thames,  and  shut  himself 
up  in  his  Bachelor’s  Hall,  which,  by 
reason  of  his  newly  erected  chimney  de- 
positing the  smoke  inside  the  room  and 
carrying  none  of  it  off,  was  not  quite 
so  agreeable  as  more  fastidious  people 
might  have  desired.  Such  inconven- 
iences, however,  instead  of  disgusting 
the  dwarf  with  his  new  abode,  rather 
suited  his  humor  ; so,  after  dining  luxu- 
riously from  the  public-house,  he  lighted 
his  pipe,  and  smoked  against  the  chim- 
ney until  nothing  of  him  was  visible 
through  the  mist  but  a pair  of  red  and 
highly  inflamed  eyes,  with  sometimes  a 
dim  vision  of  his  head  and  face,  as,  in  a 
violent  fit  of  coughing,  he  slightly  stirred 
the  smoke  and  scattered  the  heavy 
wreaths  by  which  they  were  obscured. 


220 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


In  the  midst  of  this  atmosphere,  which 
must  infallibly  have  smothered  any 
other  man,  Mr.  Quilp  passed  the  even- 
ing with  great  cheerfulness,  solacing 
himself  all  the  time  with  the  pipe  and 
the  case-bottle  ; and  occasionally  enter- 
taining himself  with  a melodious  howl, 
intended  for  a song,  but  bearing  not  the 
faintest  resemblance  to  any  scrap  of  any 
piece  of  music,  vocal  or  instrumental, 
ever  invented  by  man.  Thus  he  amused 
himself  until  nearly  midnight,  when  he 
turned  into  his  hammock  with  the  ut- 
most satisfaction. 

The  first  sound  that  met  his  ears  in 
the  morning  — as  he  half  opened  his 
eyes,  and,  finding  himself  so  unusually 
near  the  ceiling,  entertained  a drowsy 
idea  that  he  must  have  been  transformed 
into  a fly  or  blue-bottle  in  the  course  of 
the  night  — was  that  of  a stifled  sobbing 
and  weeping  in  the  room. 

Peeping  cautiously  over  the  side  of 
his  hammock,  he  descried  Mrs.  Quilp, 
to  whom,  after  contemplating  her  for 
some  time  in  silence,  he  communicated  a 
violent  start  by  suddenly  yelling  out,  — 

“ Halloa  !” 

“ O Quilp  ! ” cried  his  poor  little  wife, 
looking  up.  “ How  you  frightened 
me  ! ” 

“ I meant  to,  you  jade,”  returned  the 
dwarf.  “ What  do  you  want  here?  I ’m 
dead,  ain’t  I ? ” 

“ O please  come  home,  do  come 
home,”  said  Mrs.  Quilp,  sobbing  ; 
“we’ll  never  do  so  any  more,  Quilp, 
and  after  all  it  was  only  a mistake  that 
grew  out  of  our  anxiety.” 

“ Out  of  your  anxiety,”  grinned  the 
dwarf.  “Yes,  I know  that,  — out  of 
your  anxiety  for  my  death.  I shall 
come  home  when  I please,  I tell  you. 
I shall  come  home  when  I please,  and 
go  when  I please.  I ’ll  be  a Will-o’-the- 
Wisp,  now  here,  now  there,  dancing 
about  you  always,  starting  up  when  you 
least  expect  me,  and  keeping  you  in  a 
constant  state  of  restlessness  and  irrita- 
tion. Will  you  begone? ” 

Mrs.  Quilp  durst  only  make  a ges- 
ture of  entreaty. 

“ I tell  you,  no,”  cried  the  dwarf. 
“ No.  If  you  dare  to  come  here  again, 
unless  you  ’re  sent  for,  I ’ll  keep  watch- 
dogs in  the  yard  that  ’ll  growl  and  bite. 


— I ’ll  have  man-traps,  cunningly  al- 
tered and  improved  for  catching  women, 

— I ’ll  have  spring  guns  that  shall  ex- 
plode when  you  tread  upon  the  wires, 
and  blow  you  into  little  pieces.  Will 
you  go ! ” 

“ Do  forgive  me.  Do  come  back,” 
said  his  wife,  earnestly. 

“ No-o-o-o-o  ! ” roared  Quilp.  “ Not 
till  my  own  good  time,  and  then  I ’ll  re- 
turn again  as  often  as  I choose,  and  be 
accountable  to  nobody  for  my  goings  or 
comings.  You  see  the  door  there.  Will 
you  go  ?” 

Mr.  Quilp  delivered  this  last  com- 
mand in  such  a very  energetic  voice, 
and  moreover  accompanied  it  with  such 
a sudden  gesture,  indicative  of  an  inten- 
tion to  spring  out  of  his  hammock,  and, 
night-capped  as  he  was,  bear  his  wife 
home  again  through  the  public  streets, 
that  she  sped  away  like  an  arrow.  Her 
worthy  lord  stretched  his  neck  and  eyes 
until  she  had  crossed  the  yard,  and  then, 
not  at  all  sorry  to  have  had  this  oppor- 
tunity of  carrying  his  point,  and  assert- 
ing the  sanctity  of  his  castle,  fell  into 
an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter,  and  laid 
himself  down  to  sleep  again. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

The  bland  and  open-hearted  propri- 
etor of  Bachelor’s  Hall  slept  on  amidst 
the  congenial  accompaniments  of  rain, 
mud,  dirt,  damp,  fog,  and  rats,  until 
late  in  the  day;  when,  summoning  his 
valet  Tom  Scott  to  assist  him  to  rise, 
and  to  prepare  breakfast,  he  quitted  his 
couch,  and  made  his  toilet.  This  duty 
performed,  and  his  repast  ended,  he 
again  betook  himself  to  Bevis  Marks. 

This  visit  was  not  intended  for  Mr. 
Swiveller,  but  for  his  friend  and  em- 
ployer, Mr.  Sampson  Brass.  Both  gen- 
tlemen however  were  from  home,  nor 
was  the  life  and  light  of  law.  Miss  Sally, 
at  her  post  either.  The  fact  of  their 
joint  desertion  of  the  office  was  made 
known  to  all  comers  by  a scrap  of  paper 
in  the  handwriting  of  Mr.  Swiveller, 
which  was  attached  to  the  bell-handle, 
and  which,  giving  the  reader  no  clew  to 
the  time  of  day  when  it  was  first  posted, 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


221 


furnished  him  with  the  rather  vague 
and  unsatisfactory  information  that  that 
gentleman  would  “return  in  an  hour.” 

“There’s  a servant,  I suppose,”  said 
the  dwarf,  knocking  at  the  house  door. 
“She ’ll  do.” 

After  a sufficiently  long  interval,  the 
door  was  opened,  and  a small  voice  im- 
mediately accosted  him  with,  “ O,  please 
will  you  leave  a card  or  message  ? ” 

“ Eh?”  said  the  dwarf,  looking  down 
(it  was  something  quite  new  to  him) 
upon  the  small  servant. 

To  this  the  child,  conducting  her 
conversation  as  upon  the  occasion  of 
her  first  interview  with  Mr.  Swiveller, 
again  replied,  “ O,  please  will  you  leave 
a card  or  message  ? ” 

“ I ’ll  write  a note,”  said  the  dwarf, 
pushing  past  her  into  the  office  ; “ and 
mind  your  master  has  it  directly  Ire 
eomes  home.”  So  Mr.  Quilp  climbed 
up  to  the  top  of  a tall  stool  to  write  the 
note,  and  the  small  servant,  carefully 
tutored  for  such  emergencies,  looked 
on,  with  her  eyes  wide  open,  ready,  if 
he  so  much  as  abstracted  a wafer,  to 
rush  into  the  street,  and  give  the  alarm 
to  the  police. 

As  Mr.  Quilp  folded  his  note  (which 
was  soon  written,  being  a very  short 
one)  he  encountered  the  gaze  of  the 
small  servant.  He  looked  at  her,  long 
and  earnestly. 

“How  are  you?”  said  the  dwarf, 
moistening  a wafer  with  horrible  gri- 
maces. 

The  small  servant,  perhaps  frightened 
by  his  looks,  returned  no  audible  reply  ; 
but  it  appeared  from  the  motion  of  her 
lips  that  she  was  inwardly  repeating  the 
same  form  of  expression  concerning  the 
note  or  message. 

“ Do  they  use  you  ill  here  ? Is  your 
mistress  a Tartar  ? ” said  Quilp,  with  a 
chuckle. 

In  reply  to  the  last  interrogation,  the 
small  servant,  with  a look  of  infinite 
cunning  mingled  with  fear,  screwed  up 
her  mouth  very  tight  and  round,  and 
nodded  violently. 

Whether  there  was  anything  in  the 
peculiar  slyness  of  her  action  which  fas- 
cinated Mr.  Quilp,  or  anything  in  the 
expression  of  her  features  at  the  mo- 
ment which  attracted  his  attention  for 


some  other  reason,  or  whether  it  mere- 
ly occurred  to  him  as  a pleasant  whim 
to  stare  the  small  servant  out  of  counte- 
nance, certain  it  is,  that  he  planted  his 
elbows  square  and  firmly  on  the  desk, 
and,  squeezing  up  his  cheeks  with  his 
hands,  looked  at  her  fixedly. 

“ Where  do  you  come  from  ? ” he 
said  after  a long  pause,  stroking  his 
chin. 

“ I don’t  know.” 

“ What ’s  your  name?  ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“Nonsense!  ” retorted  Quilp.  “What 
does  your  mistress  call  you  when  she 
wants  you?  ” 

“A  little  devil,”  said  the  child. 

She  added  in  the  same  breath,  as  if 
fearful  of  any  further  questioning,  “ But 
please  will  you  leave  a card  or  mes- 
sage ? ” • 

These  unusual  answers  might  natu- 
rally have  provoked  some  more  inqui- 
ries. Quilp,  however,  without  uttering 
another  word,  withdrew  his  eyes  from 
the  small  servant,  stroked  his  chin  more 
thoughtfully  than  before,  and  then,  bend- 
ing over  the  note  as  if  to  direct  it 
with  scrupulous  and  hairbreadth  nicety, 
looked  at  her,  covertly  but  very  narrow- 
ly, from  under  his  bushy  eyebrows. 
The  result  of  this  secret  survey  was, 
that  he  shaded  his  face  with  his  hands, 
and  laughed  slyly  and  noiselessly,  until 
every  vein  in  it  was  swollen  almost  to 
bursting.  Pulling  his  hat  over  his  brow 
to  conceal  his  mirth  and  its  effects,  he 
tossed  the  letter  to  the  child,  and  hasti- 
ly withdrew. 

Once  in  the  street,  moved  by  some 
secret  impulse,  he  laughed,  and  held 
his  sides,  and  laughed  again,  and  tried 
to  peer  through  the  dusty  area  railings 
as  if  to  catch  another  glimpse  of  the 
child,  until  he  was  quite  tired  out.  At 
last,  he  travelled  back  to  the  Wilderness, 
which  was  within  rifle-shot  of  his  bach- 
elor retreat,  and  ordered  tea  in  the 
wooden  summer-house  that  afternoon 
for  three  persons  ; an  invitation  to  Miss 
Sally  Brass  and  her  brother  to  partake 
of  that  entertainment  at  that  place 
having  been  the  object  both  of  his  jour- 
ney and  his  note. 

It  was  not  precisely  the  kind  of 
weather  in  which  people  usually  take 


222 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


tea  in  summer-houses,  far  less  in  sum- 
mer-houses in  an  advanced  state  of  de- 
cay, and  overlooking  the  slimy  banks  of 
a great  river  at  low  water.  Neverthe- 
less, it  was  in  this  choice  retreat  that 
Mr.  Quilp  ordered  a cold  collation  to 
be  prepared,  and  it  was  beneath  its 
cracked  and  leaky  roof  that  he,  in  due 
course  of  time,  received  Mr.  Sampson 
and  his  sister  Sally. 

“You ’re  fond  of  the  beauties  of  na- 
ture,” said  Quilp,  with  a grin.  “ Is  this 
charming,  Brass?  Is  it  unusual,  unso- 
phisticated, primitive  ? ” 

“It’s  delightful  indeed,  sir,”  replied 
the  lawyer. 

“Cool?”  said  Quilp. 

“ N-not  particularly  so,  I think,  sir,” 
rejoined  Brass,  with  his  teeth  chattering 
in  his  head. 

“ Perhaps  a little  damp  and  agu- 
ish?” said  Quilp. 

“ Just  damp  enough  to  be  cheerful, 
sir,”  rejoined  Brass.  “Nothing  more, 
sir,  nothing  more.” 

“And  Sally?”  said  the  delighted 
dwarf.  “Does  she  like  it?” 

“ She  ’ll  like  it  better,”  returned  that 
strong-minded  lady,  “ when  she  has 
tea  ; so  let  us  have  it,  and  don’t  both- 
er.” 

“ Sweet  Sally  ! ” cried  Quilp,  extend- 
ing his  arms  as  if  about  to  embrace 
her.  “ Gentle,  charming,  overwhelm- 
ing Sally  ! ” 

“ He ’s  a very  remarkable  man  in- 
deed ! ” soliloquized  Mr.  Brass.  “ He 's 
quite  a Troubadour,  you  know  ; quite  a 
Troubadour ! ” 

These  complimentary  expressions 
were  uttered  in  a somewhat  absent  and 
distracted  manner  : for  the  unfortunate 
lawyer,  besides  having  a bad  cold  in 
his  head,  had  got  wet  in  coming,  and 
would  have  willingly  borne  some  pecu- 
niary sacrifice,  if  he  could  have  shifted 
his  present  raw  quarters  to  a warm  room 
and  dried  himself  at  a fire.  Quilp, 
however, — who,  beyond  the  gratifica- 
tion of  his  demon  whims,  owed  Samp- 
son some  acknowledgment  of  the  part 
he  had  played  in  the  mourning  scene  of 
which  he  had  been  a hidden  witness,  — 
marked  these  symptoms  of  uneasiness 
with  a delight  past  all  expression,  and 
derived  from  them  a secret  joy  which 


the  costliest  banquet  could  never  have 
afforded  him. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  too,  as  illus- 
trating a little  feature  in  the  character 
of  Miss  Sally  Brass,  that,  although  on 
her  own  account  she  would  have  borne 
the  discomforts  of  the  Wilderness  with 
a very  ill  grace,  and  would  probably, 
indeed,  have  walked  off  before  the  tea 
appeared,  she  no  sooner  beheld  the 
latent  uneasiness  and  misery  of  her 
brother  than  she  developed  a grim  sat- 
isfaction, and  began  to  enjoy  herself 
after  her  own  manner.  Though  the 
wet  came  stealing  through  the  roof  and 
trickling  down  upon  their  heads,  Miss 
Brass  uttered  no  complaint,  but  pre- 
sided over  the  tea  equipage  with  im- 
perturbable composure.  While  Mr. 
Quilp,  in  his  uproarious  hospital^, 
seated  himself  upon  an  empty  beer-bar- 
rel, vaunted  the  place  as  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  comfortable  in  the  three  king- 
doms, and,  elevating  his  glass,  drank  to 
their  next  merry-meeting  in  that  jovial 
spot;  and  Mr.  Brass,  with  the  rain  plash- 
ing down  into  his  teacup,  made  a dis- 
mal attempt  to  pluck  up  his  spirits  and 
appear  at  his  ease ; and  Tom  Scott, 
who  was  in  waiting  at  the  door  under  an 
old  umbrella,  exulted  in  his  agonies, 
and  bade  fair  to  split  his  sides  with 
laughing;  while  all  this  was  passing. 
Miss  Sally  Brass,  unmindful  of  the  wet 
which  dripped  down  upon  her  own  fem- 
inine person  and  fair  apparel,  sat  pla- 
cidly behind  the  tea-board,  erect  and 
grizzly,  contemplating  the  unhappiness 
of  her  brother  with  a mind  at  ease,  and 
content,  in  her  amiable  disregard  of 
self,  to  sit  there  all  night,  witnessing  the 
torments  which  his  avaricious  and  grov- 
elling nature  compelled  him  to  endure 
and  forbade  him  to  resent.  And  this, 
it  must  be  observed,  or  the  illustration 
would  be  incomplete,  although  in  a bus- 
iness point  of  view  she  had  the  strong- 
est sympathy  with  Mr.  Sampson,  and 
would  have  been  beyond  measure  in- 
dignant if  he  had  thwarted  their  client 
in  any  one  respect. 

In  the  height  of  his  boisterous  merri- 
ment, Mr.  Quilp,  having  on  some  pre- 
tence dismissed  his  attendant  sprite  for 
the  moment,  resumed  his  usual  manner 
all  at  once,  dismounted  from  his  cask, 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


223 


and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  lawyer’s 
sleeve. 

“•A  word,”  said  the  dwarf,  “before 
we  go  further.  Sally,  hark  ’ee  for  a 
minute.” 

Miss  Sally  drew  closer,  as  if  accus- 
tomed to  business  conferences  with  their 
host  which  were  the  better  for  not  hav- 
ing air. 

“ Business,”  said  the  dwarf,  glancing 
from  brother  to  sister.  “Very  private 
business.  Lay  your  heads  together 
when  you  ’re  by  yourselves.” 

“ Certainly,  sir,”  returned  Brass, 
taking  out  his  pocket-book  and  pen- 
cil. “ I ’ll  take  down  the  heads  if  you 
please,  sir.  Remarkable  documents,” 
added  the  lawyer,  raising  his  eyes  to  the 
ceiling,  “most  remarkable  documents. 
He  states  his  points  so  clearly  that  it ’s 
a treat  to  have  ’em  ! I don’t  know  any 
act  of  Parliament  that ’s  equal  to  him 
in  clearness.  ” 

“ I shall  deprive  you  of  a treat,”  said 
Quilp.  “ Put  up  your  book.  We  don’t 
want  any  documents.  So.  There ’s  a 
lad  named  Kit — ” 

Miss  Sally  nodded,  implying  that  she 
knew  of  him. 

“ Kit !”  said  Mr.  Sampson,  — “ Kit  ! 
Ha  ! I ’ve  heard  the  name  before,  but 
I don’t  exactly  call  to  mind  — I don’t 
exactly  — ” 

“ You  ’re  as  slow  as  a tortoise,  and 
more  thick-headed  than  a rhinoceros,” 
returned  his  obliging  client,  with  an  im-  • 
patient  gesture. 

“ He ’s  extremely  pleasant  ! ” cried 
the  obsequious  Sampson.  “His  ac- 
quaintance with  Natural  History  too  is 
surprising.  Quite  a Buffoon,  quite  ! ” 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Brass  in- 
tended some  compliment  or  other  ; and 
it  has  been  argued  with  show  of  reason 
that  he  would  have  said  Buffon,  but 
made  use  of  a superfluous  vowel.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  Quilp  gave  him  no  time 
for  correction,  as  he  performed  that 
office  himself  by  more  than  tapping  him 
on  the  head  with  the  handle  of  his  um- 
brella. 

“Don’t  let’s  have  any  wrangling,” 
said  Miss  Sally,  staying  his  hand. 

“ I ’ve  showed  you  that  I know  him, 
and  that ’s  enough.” 

“ She ’s  always  foremost  ! ” said  the 


dwarf,  patting  her  on  the  back  and  look- 
ing contemptuously  at  Sampson.  “ I 
don’t  like  Kit,  Sally.” 

“ Nor  I,”  rejoined  Miss  Brass. 

“ Nor  I,”  said  Sampson. 

“ Why,  that  ’s.  right  ! ” cried  Quilp. 
“ Half  our  work  is  done  already.  This 
Kit  is  one  of  yonr  honest  people  ; onp 
of  your  fair  characters ; a prowling, 
prying  hound ; a hypocrite  ; a double- 
faced,  white-livered,  sneaking  spy  ; a 
crouching  cur  to  those  that  feed  and 
coax  him,  and  a barking,  yelping  dog  to 
all  besides.” 

“Fearfully  eloquent!”  cried  Brass, 
with  a sneeze.  “ Quite  appalling  ! ” 

“ Come  to  the  point,”  said  Miss  Sally, 
“ and  don’t  talk  so  much.” 

“Right  again!”  exclaimed  Quilp, 
with  another  contemptuous  look  at 
Sampson;  “always  foremost!  I say, 
Sally,  he  is  a yelping,  insolent  dog  to 
all  besides,  and  most  of  all  to  me.  In 
short,  I owe  him  a grudge.” 

“That’s  enough,  sir,”  said  Samp- 
son. 

“ No,  it ’s  not  enough,  sir,”  sneered 
Quilp;  “will  you  hear  me  out?  Be- 
sides that  I owe  him  a grudge  on  that 
account,  he  thwarts  me  at  this  minute, 
and  stands  between . me  and  an  end 
which  might  otherwise  prove  a gol- 
den one  to  us  all.  Apart  from  that,  I 
repeat,  that  he  crosses  my  humor,  and 
I hate  him.  Now,  you  know  the  lad, 
and  can  guess  the  rest.  Devise  your 
own  means  of  putting  him  out  of  my 
way,  and  execute  them.  Shall  it  be 
done  ? ” 

“ It  shall,  sir,”  said  Sampson. 

“ Then  give  me  your  hand,”  retorted 
Quilp.  “ Sally,  girl,  yours.  I rely  as 
much,  or  more,  on  you  than  him.  Tom 
Scott  comes  back.  Lantern,  pipes, 
more  grog,  and  a jolly  night  of  it ! ” 

No  other  word  was  spoken,  no  other 
look  exchanged,  which  had  the  slightest 
reference  to  this,  the  real  occasion  of 
their  meeting.  The  trio  were  well  ac- 
customed to  act  together,  and  were 
linked  to  each  other  by  ties  of  mutual 
interest  and  advantage,  and  nothing 
more  was  needed.  Resuming  his  bois- 
terous manner  with  the  same  ease  with 
which  he  had  thrown  it  off,  Quilp  was 
in  an  instant  the  same  uproarious,  reck- 


224 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


less  little  savage  he  had  been  a few 
seconds  before.  It  was  ten  o’clock  at 
night  before  the  amiable  Sally  supported 
her  beloved  and  loving  brother  from  the 
Wilderness,  by  which  time  he  needed 
the  utmost  support  her  tender  frame 
could  render ; his  walk  being  for  some 
unknown  reason  anything  but  steady, 
mid  his  legS'Constantly  doubling  up,  in 
unexpected  places. 

Overpowered,  notwithstanding  his 
late  prolonged  slumbers,  by  the  fatigues 
cf  the  last  few  days,  the  dwarf  lost  no 
time  in  creeping  to  his  dainty  house, 
and  was  soon  dreaming  in  his  ham-. 
5nock.  Leaving  him  to  visions,  in 
which  perhaps  the  quiet  figures  we 
quitted  in  the  old  church-porch  were 
not  without  their  share,  be  it  our  task 
to  rejoin  them  as  they  sat  and  watched. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

After  a long  time,  the  schoolmaster 
appeared  at  the  wicket-gate  of  the 
churchyard,  and  hurried  towards  them, 
jingling  in  his  hand,  ns  he  came  along, 
a bundle  of  rusty  keys.  He  was  quite 
breathless  with  pleasure  and  haste 
when  he  reached  the  porch,  and  at  first 
could  only  point  towards  the  old  build- 
ing which  the  child  had  been  contem- 
plating so  earnestly. 

“You  see  those  two  old  houses,”  he 
said  at  last. 

“ Yes,  surely,”  replied  Nell.  “ I 
have  been  looking  at  them  nearly  all 
the  time  you  have  been  away.” 

“ And  you  would  have  looked  at 
them  more  curiously  yet,  if  you  could 
have  guessed  what  I have  to  tell  you,” 
said  her  friend.  “ One  of  those  houses 
is  mine.” 

Without  saying  any  more,  or  giving 
the  child  time  to  reply,  the  schoolmas- 
ter took  her  hand,  and,  his  honest  face 
quite  radiant  with  exultation,  led  her 
to  the  place  of  which  he  spoke. 

They  stopped  before  its  low  arched 
door.  Afte  trying  several  of  the  keys 
in  vain,  the  schoolmaster  found  one  to 
fit  the  huge  lock,  which  turned  back, 
creaking,  and  admitted  them  into  the 
house. 


The  room  into  which  they  entered 
was  a vaulted  chamber  once  nobly  or- 
namented by  cunning  architects,  and 
still  retaining,  in  its  beautiful  groined 
roof  and  rich  stone  tracery,  choice  rem- 
nants of  its  ancient  splendor.  Foliage 
carved  in  the  stone,  and  emulating  the 
mastery  of  Nature’s  hand,  yet  remained 
to  tell  how  many  times  the  leaves  out- 
side had  come  and  gone  while  it  lived 
on  unchanged.  The  broken  figures 
supporting  the  burden  of  the  chimney- 
piece,  though  mutilated,  were  still  dis- 
tinguishable for  what  they  had  been,  — 
far  different  from  the  dust  without,  — 
and  showed  sadly  by  the  empty  hearth, 
like  creatures  who  had  outlived  their 
kind,  and  mourned  their  own  too  slow 
decay. 

In  some  old  time  — for  even  change 
was  old  in  that  old  place  — a wooden 
partition  had  been  constructed  in  one 
part  of  the  chamber  to  form  a sleeping- 
closet,  into  which  the  light  was  admitted 
at  the  same  period  by  a rude  window, 
or  rather  niche,  cut  in  the  solid  wall. 
This  screen,  together  with  two  seats  in 
the  broad  chimney,  had  at  some  for- 
gotten date  been  part  of  the  church  or 
convent  ; for  the  oak,  hastily  appro- 
priated to  its  present  purpose,  had  been 
little  altered  from  its  former  shape,  and 
presented  to  the  eye  a pile  of  fragments 
of  rich  carving  from  old  monkish  stalls. 

An  open  door,  leading  to  a small  room 
or  cell,  dim  with  the  light  that  came 
through  leaves  of  ivy,  completed  the 
interior  of  this  portion  of  the  ruin.  It 
was  not  quite  destitute  of  furniture.  A 
few  strange  chairs,  whose  arms  and  legs 
looked  as  though  they  had  dwindled 
away  with  age  ; a table,  the  very  spectre 
of  its  race ; a great  old  chest  that  had 
once  held  records  in  the  church,  with 
other  quaintly  fashioned  domestic  ne- 
cessaries, and  store  of  fire-wood  for  the 
winter,  were  scattered  around,  and  gave 
evident  tokens  of  its  occupation  as  a 
dwelling-place  at  no  very  distant  time. 

The  child  looked  around  her,  with 
that  solemn  feeling  with  which  we  con- 
template the  work  of  ages  that  have  be- 
come but  drops  of  water  in  the  great 
ocean  of  eternity.  The  old  man  had 
followed  them,  but  they  were  all  three 
hushed  for  a space,  and  d>^w  their 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


225 


breath  softly,  as  if  they  feared  to  break 
the  silence  even  by  so  slight  a sound. 

“ It  is  a very  beautiful  place  ! ” said 
the  child,  in  a low  voice. 

“ I almost  feared  you  thought  other- 
wise,” returned  the  schoolmaster.  “You 
shivered  when  we  first  came  in,  as  if 
you  felt  it  cold  or  gloomy.” 

“ It  was  not  that,”  said  Nell,  glan- 
cing round  with  a slight  shudder.  “ In- 
deed I cannot  tell  you  what  it  was,  but 
when  I saw  the  outside,  from  the  church- 
porch,  the  same  feeling  came  over  me. 
It  is  its  being  so  old  and  gray,  per- 
haps.” 

“ A peaceful  place  to  live  in,  don’t 
you  think  so?”  said  her  friend. 

“ O yes,”  rejoined  the  child,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  earnestly.  “ A quiet, 
happy  place,  — a place  to  live  and  learn 
to  die  in  ! ” She  would  have  said  more, 
but  that  the  energy  of  her  thoughts 
caused  her  voice  to  falter,  and  come  in 
trembling  whispers  from  her  lips. 

“A  place  to  live,  and  learn  to  live, 
and  gather  health  of  mind  and  body 
in,”  said  the  schoolmaster;  “for  this 
old  house  is  yours.” 

“ Ours  ! ” cried  the  child. 

“ Ay,”  returned  the  schoolmaster  gay- 
ly,  “for  many  a merry  year  to  come, 
I hope.  I shall  be  a close  neighbor,  — 
only  next  door,  — but  this  house  is 
yours.” 

Having  now  disburdened  himself  of 
his  great  surprise,  the  schoolmaster  sat 
down,  and,  drawing  Nell  to  his  side, 
told  her  how  he  had  learnt  that  that  an- 
cient tenement  had  been  occupied  for  a 
very  long  time  by  an  old  person,  nearly 
a hundred  years  of  age,  who  kept  the 
keys  of  the  church,  opened  and  closed 
it  for  the  services,  and  showed  it  to 
strangers  ; how  she  had  died  not  many 
weeks  ago,  and  nobody  had  yet  been 
found  to  fill  the  office  ; how,  learning  all 
this  in  an  interview  with  the  sexton, 
who.  was  confined  to  his  bed  by  rheu- 
matism, he  had  been  bold  to  make 
mention  of  his  fellow-traveller,  which 
had  been  so  favorably  received  by  that 
high  authority,  that  he  had  taken  cour- 
age, acting  on  his  advice,  to  propound 
the  matter  to  the  clergyman.  In  a word, 
the  result  of  his  exertions  was,  that 
Nell  and  her  grandfather  were  to  be 
i5 


carried  before  the  last-named  gentle- 
man next  day ; and,  his  approval  of 
their  conduct  and  appearance  reserved 
as  a matter  of  form,  that  they  were  al- 
ready appointed  to  the  vacant  post. 

“ There ’s  a small  allowance  of  mon- 
ey,” said  the  schoolmaster.  “ It  is  not 
much,  but  still  enough  to  live  upon  in 
this  retired  spot.  By  clubbing  our 
funds  together,  we  shall  do  bravely  ; no 
fear  of  that.” 

“ Heaven  bless  and  prosper  you  ! ” 
sobbed  the  child. 

“ Amen,  my  dear,”  returned  her 
friend,  cheerfully ; “ and  all  of  us,  as  it 
will,  and  has,  in  leading  us  through  sor- 
row and  trouble  to  this  tranquil  life. 
But  we  must  look  at  my  house  now. 
Come  ! ” 

They  repaired  to  the  other  tenement ; 
tried  the  rusty  keys  as  before,  at 
length  found  the  right  one,  and  opened 
the  worm-eaten  door.  It  led  into  a 
chamber,  vaulted  and  old,  like  that 
from  which  they  had  come,  but  not  so 
spacious,  and  having  only  one  other 
little  room  attached.  It  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  divine  that  the  other  house  was 
of  right  the  schoolmaster’s,  and  that  he 
had  chosen  for  himself  the  least  com- 
modious, in  his  care  and  regard  for 
them.  Like  the  adjoining  habitation, 
it  held  such  old  articles  of  furniture  as 
were  absolutely  necessary,  and  had  its 
stack  of  fire-wood. 

To  make  these  dwellings  as  habita- 
ble and  full  of  comfort  as  they  could 
was  now  their  pleasant  care.  In  a short 
time,  each  had  its  cheerful  fire  glowing 
and  crackling  on  the  hearth,  and  red- 
dening the  pale  old  walls  with  a hale 
and  healthy  blush.  Nell,  busily  ply- 
ing her  needle,  repaired  the  tattered 
windaw-hangings,  drew  together  the 
rents  that  time  had  worn  in  the  thread- 
bare Scraps  of  carpet,  and  made  them 
whole,  and  decent.  The  schoolmaster 
sweprand  smoothed  the  ground  before 
the  door;  trimmed  the  long  grass, 
trained  ‘the  ivy  and  creeping  plants, 
which  hung  their  drooping  heads  in 
melancholy  ndglect ; and  gave  to  the 
outer  walls  a cheery  air  of  home.  The 
old  man,'  sometimes1  by  his  side  and 
sometimes  with  the  child,  lent  his  aid 
to  both,  went;  here  and  there  on  lit- 


226 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


tie  patient  services,  and  was  happy. 
Neighbors  too,  as  they  came  from 
work,  proffered  their  help,  or  sent  their 
children  with  such  small  presents  or 
loans  as  the  strangers  needed  most. 
It  was  a busy  day;  and  night  came  on, 
and  found  them  wondering  that  there 
was  yet  so  much  to  do,  and  that  it 
should  be  dark  so  soon. 

They  took  their  supper  together,  in 
the  house  which  may  be  henceforth 
called  the  child’s  ; and,  when  they  had 
finished  their  meal,  drew  round  the 
fire,  and  almost  in  w'hispers — their 
hearts  were  too  quiet  and  glad  for  loud 
expression  — discussed  their  future 
plans.  Before  they  separated,  the 
schoolmaster  read  some  prayers  aloud  ; 
and  then,  full  of  gratitude  and  happi- 
ness, they  parted  for  the  night. 

At  that  silent  hour,  when  her  grand- 
father was  sleeping  peacefully  in  his 
bed,  and  every  sound  was  hushed,  the 
child  lingered  before  the  dying  embers, 
and  thought  of  her  past  fortunes  as  if 
they  had  been  a dream  and  she  only 
now  awoke.  The  glare  of  the  sinking 
flame,  reflected  in  the  oaken  panels 
whose  carved  tops  were  dimly  seen  in 
the  gloom  of  the  dusky  roof,  — the  aged 
walls,  w'here  strange  shadow's  came  and 
went  with  every  flickering  of  the  fire,  — 
the  solemn  presence,  within,  of  that  de- 
cay which  falls  on  senseless  things  the 
most  enduring  in  their  nature ; and, 
without,  and  round  about  on  every 
side,  of  Death, — filled  her  with  deep 
and  thoughtful  feelings,  but  w’ith  none 
of  terror  or  alarm.  A change  had  been 
gradually  stealing  over  her,  in  the  time 
of  her  loneliness  and  sorrow.  With 
failing  strength  and  heightening  resolu- 
tion, there  had  sprung  up  a purified 
and  altered  mind  ; there  had  growm  in 
her  bosom  blessed  thoughts  and  hopes, 
which  are  the  portion  of  few  but  the 
weak  and  drooping.  There  were  none 
to  see  the  frail,  perishable  figure,  as  it 
glided  from  the  fire  and  leaned  pen- 
sively at  the  open  casement ; none  but 
the  stars,  to  look  into  the  upturned  face 
and  read  its  history.  The  old  church- 
bell  rang  out  the  hour  with  a pnournful 
sound,  as  if  it  had  grown  sad  from  so 
much  communing  w'ith  the  dead  and 
upheeded  warning  to  the  living ; the 


fallen  leaves  rustled ; the  grass  stirred 
upon  the  graves  ; all  else  was  still  and 
sleeping. 

Same  of  those  dreamless  sleepers  lay 
close  within  the  shadow'  of  the  church, 
touching  the  wall,  as  if  they  clung  to 
it  for  comfort  aud  protection.  Others 
had  chosen  to  lie  beneath  the  changing 
shade  of  trees;  others,  by  the  path, 
that  footsteps  might  come  near  them  ; 
others,  among  the  graves  of  little  chil- 
dren. Some  had  desired  to  rest  be- 
neath the  very  ground  they  had  trodden 
in  their  daily  walks  ; some,  w'here  the 
setting  sun  might  shine  upon  their 
beds ; some,  where  its  light  would  fall 
upon  them  when  it  rose.  Perhaps  not 
one  of  the  unprisoned  souls  had  been 
able  quite  to  separate  itself  in  living 
thought  from  its  old  companion.  If 
any  had,  it  had  still  felt  for  it  a love 
like  that  which  captives  have  been 
know-n  to  bear  towards  the  cell  in  w'hich 
they  have  been  long  confined,  and,  even 
at  parting,  hung  upon  its  narrow  bounds 
affectionately. 

It  was  long  before  the  child  closed 
the  window,  and  approached  her  bed. 
Again  something  of  the  same  sensation 
as  before, — an  involuntary  chill,  a 
momentary  feeling  akin  to  fear, — but 
vanishing  directly,  and  leaving  no  alarm 
behind.  Again,  too,  dreams  of  the  little 
scholar  ; of  the  roof  opening,  and  a col- 
umn of  bright  faces,  rising  far  aw'ay 
into  the  sky,  as  she  had  seen  in  some 
old  Scriptural  picture  once,  and  looking 
down  on  her,  asleep.  It  was  a sweet 
and  happy  dream.  The  quiet  spot 
outside  seemed  to  remain  the  same, 
save  that  there  was  music  in  the  air, 
and  a sound  of  angels’  wings.  After  a 
time  the  sisters  came  there,  hand-in- 
hand,  and  stood  among  the  graves. 
And  then  the  dream  grew  dim  and 
faded. 

With  the  brightness  and  joy  of  morn- 
ing came  the  renewal  of  yesterday’s 
labors,  the  revival  of  its  pleasant 
thoughts,  the  restoration  of  its  energies, 
cheerfulness,  and  hope.  They  worked 
gayly  in  ordering  and  arranging  their 
houses  until  noon,  and  then  went  to 
visit  the  clergyman. 

He  was  a simple-hearted  old  gentle- 
man, pf  a shrinking,  subdued  spirit, 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


227 


accustomed  to  retirement,  and  very  lit- 
tle acquainted  with  the  world,  which  he 
had  left  many  years  before  to  come  and 
settle  in  that  place.  His  wife  had  died 
in  the  house  in  which  he  still  lived,  and 
he  had  long  since  lost  sight  of  any 
earthly  cares  or  hopes  beyond  it. 

He  received  them  very  kindly,  and  at 
once  showed  an  interest  in  Nell ; ask- 
ing her  name  and  age,  her  birthplace, 
the  circumstances  which  had  led  her 
there,  and  so  forth.  The  schoolmaster 
had  already  told  her  story.  They  had 
no  other  friends  or  home  to  leave,  he 
said,  and  had  come  to  share  his  for- 
tunes. He  loved  the  child  as  though 
she  were  his  own. 

“ Well,  well,”  said  the  clergyman. 
“ Let  it  be  as  you  desire.  She  is  very 
young.” 

“ Old  in  adversity  and  trial,  sir,”  re- 
plied the  schoolmaster. 

“God  help  her!  Let  her  rest,  and 
forget  them,”  said  the  old  gentleman. 
“ But  an  old  church  is  a dull  and 
gloomy  place  for  one  so  young  as  you, 
my  child.” 

“ O no,  sir,”  returned  Nell.  “I  have 
no  such  thoughts,  indeed.” 

“ I would  rather  see  her  dancing  on 
the  green  at  nights,”  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman, laying  his  hand  upon  her  head, 
and  smiling  sadly,  “than  have  her  sit- 
ting in  the  shadow  of  our  mouldering 
arches.  You  must  look  to  this,  and  see 
that  her  heart  does  not  grow  heavy 
among  these  solemn  ruins.  Your  re- 
quest is  granted,  friend.” 

After  more  kind  words,  they  with- 
drew, and  repaired  to  the  child’s  house  ; 
where  they  were  yet  in  conversation 
on  their  happy  fortune,  when  another 
friend  appeared. 

This  was  a little  old  gentleman,  who 
lived  in  the  parsonage  house,  and  had 
resided  there  (so  they  learnt  soon  af- 
terwards) ever  since  "the  death  of  the 
clergyman’s  wife,  which  had  happened 
fifteen  years  before.  He  had  been  his 
college  friend  and  always  his  close  com- 
panion ; in  the  first  shock  of  his  grief 
he  had  come  to  console  and  comfort 
him  ; and  from  that  time  they  had  never 
parted  company.  The  little  old  gentle- 
man was  the  active  spirit  of  the  place, 
the  adjuster  of  all  differences,  the  pro- 


moter of  all  merry-makings,  the  dis- 
penser of  his  friend’s  bounty,  and  of 
no  small  charity  of  his  own  besides : 
the  universal  mediator,  comforter,  and 
friend.  None  of  the  simple  villagers 
had  cared  to  ask  his  name,  or,  when 
they  knew  it,«to  store  it  in  their  mem- 
ory. Perhaps  from  some  vague  rumor 
of  his  college  honors  which  had  been 
whispered  abroad  on  his  first  arrival, 
perhaps  because  he  was  an  unmarried, 
unencumbered  gentleman,  he  had  been 
called  the  bachelor.  The  name  pleased 
him,  or  suited  him  as  well  as  any  other, 
and  the  bachelor  he  had  ever  since  re- 
mained. And  the  bachelor  it  was,  it 
may  be  added,  who  with  his  own  hands 
had  laid  in  the  stock  of  fuel  which  the 
wanderers  had  found  in  their  new  habi- 
tations. 

The  bachelor,  then,  — to  call  him  by 
his  usual  appellation,  — lifted  the  latch, 
showed  his  little  round  mild  face  for  a 
moment  at  the  door,  and  stepped  into 
the  room  like  one  who  was  no  stranger 
to  it. 

“ You  are  Mr.  Marton,  the  new 
schoolmaster?  ” he  said,  greeting  Nell’s 
kind  friend. 

“ I am,  sir.” 

“You  come  well  recommended,  and 
I am  glad  to  see  you.  I should  have 
been  in  the  way  yesterday,  expecting 
you,  but  I rode  across  the  country  to 
carry  a message  from  a sick  mother  to 
her  daughter  in  service  some  miles  off, 
and  have  but  just  now  returned.  This 
is  our  young  church-keeper?  You  are 
not  the  less  welcome,  friend,  for  her 
sake,  or  for  this  old  man’s ; nor  the 
worse  teacher  for  having  learnt  human- 
ity.” 

“ She  has  been  ill,  sir,  very  lately,” 
said  the  schoolmaster,  in  answer  to  the 
look  with  which  their  visitor  regarded 
Nell  when  he  had  kissed  her  cheek. 

“Yes,  yes.  I know  she  has,”  he  re- 
joined. “There  have  been  suffering 
and  heartache  here.” 

“Indeed  there  have,  sir.” 

The  little  old  gentleman  glanced  at 
the  grandfather,  and  back  again  at  the 
child,  whose  hand  he  took  tenderly  in 
his,  and  held. 

“ You  will  be  happier  here,”  he  said ; 
“ we  will  try,  at  least,  to  make  you  so. 


228 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


You  have  made  great  improvements  here 
already.  Are  they  the  work  of  your 
hands  ? ” 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

“We  may  make  some  others,  not 
better  in  themselves,  but  with  better 
means,  perhaps,”  said  *the  bachelor. 
“Let  us  see  now,  let  us  see.” 

Nell  accompanied  him  into  the  other 
little  rooms,  and  over  both  the  houses, 
in  which  he  found  various  small  com- 
forts wanting,  which  he  engaged  to  sup- 
ply from  a certain  collection  of  odds 
and  ends  he  had  at  home,  and  which 
must  have  been  a very  miscellaneous 
and  extensive  one,  as  it  comprehended 
the  most  opposite  articles  imaginable. 
They  all  came,  however,  and  came 
without  loss  of  time ; for  the  little  old 
gentleman,  disappearing  for  some  five 
or  ten  minutes,  presently  returned,  laden 
with  old  shelves,  rugs,  blankets,  and 
other  household  gear,  and  followed  by 
a boy  bearing  a similar  load.  These, 
being  cast  on  the  floor  in  a pro- 
miscuous heap,  yielded  a quantity  of 
occupation  in  arranging,  erecting,  and 
putting  away  ; the  superintendence  of 
which  task  evidently  afforded  the  old 
gentleman  extreme  delight,  and  en- 
gaged him  for  some  time  with  great 
briskness  and  activity.  When  nothing 
more  was  left  to  be  done,  he  charged 
the  boy  to  run  off  and  bring  his  school- 
mates to  be  marshalled  before  their  new 
master,  and  solemnly  reviewed. 

“As  good  a set  of  fellow's,  Marton, 
as  you ’d  wish  to  see,”  he  said,  turning 
to  "the  schoolmaster  when  the  boy  was 
gone;  “but  I don’t  let  ’em  know  I 
think  so.  That  wouldn’t  do  at  all.” 
The  messenger  soon  returned  at  the 
head  of  a long  row  of  urchins,  great  and 
small,  who,  being  confronted  by  the 
bachelor  at  the  house  door,  fell  into  va- 
rious convulsions  of  politeness,  clutch- 
ing their  hats  and  caps,  squeezing  them 
into  the  smallest  possible  dimensions, 
and  making  all  manner  of  bows  and 
scrapes,  which  the  little  old  gentleman 
contemplated  with  excessive  satisfac- 
tion, and  expressed  his  approval  of  by  a 
reat  many  nods  and  smiles.  Indeed, 
is  approbation  of  the  boys  was  by  no 
means  so  scrupulously  disguised  as  he 
had  led  the  schoolmaster  to  suppose, 


inasmuch  as  it  broke  out  in  sundry  loud 
whispers  and  confidential  remarks  which 
were  perfectly  audible  to  them  every 
one. 

“This  first  boy,  schoolmaster,”  said 
the  bachelor,  “is  John  Owen  ; a lad  of 
good  parts,  sir,  and  frank,  honest  tem- 
per ; but  too  thoughtless,  too  playful, 
too  light-headed  by  far.  That  boy,  my 
good  sir,  would  break  his  neck  with 
pleasure,  and  deprive  his  parents  of 
their  chief  comfort ; and  between  our- 
selves when  you  come  to  see  him  at 
hare  and  hounds,  taking  the  fence  and 
ditch  by  the  finger-post,  and  sliding 
down  the  face  of  the  little  quarry,  you  ’ll 
never  forget  it.  It ’s  beautiful ! ” 

John  Owen  having  been  thus  re- 
buked, and  being  in  perfect  possession 
of  the  speech  aside,  the  bachelor  singled 
out  another  boy. 

“Now,  look  at  that  lad,  sir,”  said 
the  bachelor.  “You  see  that  fellow? 
Richard  Evans  his  name  is,  sir.  An 
amazing  boy  to  learn,  blessed  with  a 
good  memory,  and  a ready  understand- 
ing, and  moreover  with  a good  voice 
and  ear  for  psalm-singing,  in  which  he 
is  the  best  among  us.  Yet,  sir,  that 
boy  will  come  to  a bad  end  ; he  ’ll  never 
die  in  his  bed ; he ’s  always  falling 
asleep  in  church  in  sermon-time  ; and 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Marton,  I 
always  did  the  same  at  his  age,  and  feel 
quite  certain  that  it  was  natural  to  my 
constitution,  and  I couldn’t  help  it.” 

This  hopeful  pupil  edified  by  the 
above  terrible  reproval,  the  bachelor 
turned  to  another. 

“ But  if  we  talk  of  examples  to  be 
shunned,”  said  he,  “ if  we  come  to  boys 
that  should  be  a warning  and  a beacon 
to  all  their  fellows,  here ’s  the  one,  and 
I hope  you  won’t  spare  him.  This  is 
the  lad,  sir  ; this  one  with  the  blue  eyes 
and  light  hair.  This  is  a swimmer, 
sir,  this  fellow,  — a diver,  Lord  save  us  ! 
This  is  a boy,  sir,  who  had  a fancy  for 
plunging  into  eighteen  feet  of  water, 
with  his  clothes  on,  and  bringing  up  a 
blind  man’s  dog,  who  was  being  drowned 
by  the  weight  of  his  chain  and  collar, 
while  his  master  stood  wringing  his 
hands  upon  the  bank,  bewailing  the  loss 
of  his  guide  and  friend.  I sent  the  bov 
two  guineas  anonymously,  sir,”  added 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


229 


the  bachelor,  in  his  peculiar  whisper, 
“ directly  I heard  of  it ; but  never  men- 
tion it  on  any  account,  for  he  hasn’t  the 
least  idea  that  it  came  from  me.” 

Having  disposed  of  this  culprit,  the 
bachelor  turned  to  another,  and  from 
him  to  another,  and  so  on  through  the 
whole  array,  laying,  for  their  wholesome 
restriction  within  due  bounds,  the  same 
cutting  emphasis  on  such  of  their  pro- 
pensities as  were  dearest  to  his  heart, 
and  were  unquestionably  referable  to 
his  own  precept  and  example.  Thor- 
oughly persuaded,  in  the  end,  that  he 
had  made  them  miserable  by  his  sever- 
ity, he  dismissed  them  with  a small 
present,  and  an  admonition  to  walk 
quietly  home,  without  any  leapings, 
scufflings,  or  turnings  out  of  the  way  ; 
which  injunction  (he  informed  the 
schoolmaster  in  the  same  audible  confi- 
dence) he  did  not  think  he  could  have 
obeyed  when  he  was  a boy,  had  his  life 
depended  on  it. 

Hailing  these  little  tokens  of  the 
bachelor’s  disposition  as  so  many  as- 
surances of  his  own  welcome  course 
from  that  time,  the  schoolmaster  parted 
from  him  with  a light  heart  and  joyous 
spirits,  and  deemed  himself  one  of  the 
happiest  men  on  earth.  The  windows 
of  the  two  old  houses  were  ruddy  again, 
that  night,  with  the  reflection  of  the 
cheerful  fires  that  burnt  within ; and 
the  bachelor  and  his  friend,  pausing  to 
look  upon  them  as  they  returned  from 
their  evening  walk,  spoke  softly  togeth- 
er of  the  beautiful  child,  and  looked 
round  upon  the  churchyard  with  a sigh. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

Nell  was  stirring  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  having  discharged  her  house- 
hold tasks,  and  put  everything  in  order 
for  the  good  schoolmaster  (though  sore- 
ly against  his  will,  for  he  would  have 
spared  her  the  pains),  took  down,  from 
its  nail  by  the  fireside,  a little  bundle  of 
keys  with  which  the  bachelor  had  for- 
mally invested  her  on  the  previous  day, 
and  went  out  alone  to  visit  the  old 
church. 

The  sky  was  serene  and  bright,  the 


air  clear,  perfumed  with  the  fresh  scent 
of  newly  fallen  leaves,  and  grateful  to 
every  sense.  The  neighboring  stream 
sparkled,  and  rolled  onward  with  a 
tuneful  sound ; the  dew  glistened  on 
the  green  mounds, 'like  tears  shed  by 
Good  Spirits  over  the  dead. 

Some  young  children  sported  among 
the  tombs,  and  hid  from  each  other, 
with  laughing  faces.  They  had  an 
infant  with  them,  and  had  laid  it  down 
asleep  upon  a child’s  grave,  in  a little 
bed  of  leaves.  It  was  a new  grave,  — • 
the  resting-place,  perhaps,  of  some  lit- 
tle creature,  who,  meek  and  patient  in 
its  illness,  had  often  sat  and  watched 
them,  and  now  seemed,  to  their  minds, 
scarcely  changed. 

She  drew  near  and  asked  one  of  them, 
whose  grave  it  was.  The  child  an- 
swered that  that  was  not  its  name  ; it 
was  a garden, — his  brother’s.  It  was 
greener,  he  said,  than  all  the  other 
gardens,  and  the  birds  loved  it  better, 
because  he  had  been  used  to  feed  them. 
When  he  had  done  speaking,  he  looked 
at  her  with  a smile,  and  kneeling  down 
and  nestling  for  a moment  with  his 
cheek  against  the  turf,  bounded  merrily 
away. 

She  passed  the  church,  gazing  up- 
ward at  its  old  tower,  went  through  the 
wicket-gate,  and  so  into  the  village. 
The  old  sexton,  leaning  on  a crutch, 
was  taking  the  air  at  his  cottage  door, 
and  gave  her  good  morrow. 

“You  are  better?”  said  the  child, 
stopping  to  speak  with  him. 

“ Ay,  surely,”  returned  the  old  man. 
“ I ’m  thankful  to  say,  much  better.” 

“ You  will  be  quite  w'ell  soon.” 

“ With  Heaven’s  leave,  and  a little 
patience.  But  come  in,  come  in  ! ” 
The  old  man  limped  on  before,  and 
warning  her  of  the  downward  step, 
which  he  achieved  himself  with  no 
small  difficulty,  led  the  way  into  his 
little  cottage. 

“ It  is  but  one  room,  you  see.  There 
is  another  up  above,  but  the  stair  has 
got  harder  to  climb  o’  late  years,  and  I 
never  use  it.  I ’m  thinking  of  taking 
to  it  again,  next  summer,  though.” 
The  child  wondered  how  a gray- 
headed man  like  him  — one  of  his 
trade  too  — could  talk  of  time  so  easily. 


230 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


He  saw  her  eyes  wandering  to  the  tools 
that  hung  upon  the  wall,  and  smiled. 

“ I warrant  now,”  he  said,  “that  you 
think  all  those  are  used  in  making 
graves.” 

“ Indeed,  I wondered  that  you  want- 
ed so  many.” 

“ And  well  you  might.  I am  a gar- 
dener. I dig  the  ground,  and  plant 
things  that  are  to  live  and  grow.  My 
works  don’t  all  moulder  away,  and  rot 
in  the  earth.  You  see  that  spade  in  the 
centre?  ” 

“ The  very  old  one,  — so  notched  and 
worn?  Yes.” 

“ That ’s  the  sexton’s  spade,  and  it ’s 
a well-used  one,  as  you  see.  We  ’re 
healthy  people  here,  but  it  has  done  a 
power  of  work.  If  it  could  speak  now, 
that  spade,  it  would  tell  you  of  many 
an  unexpected  job  that  it  and  I have 
done  together ; but  I forget  ’em,  for 
my  memory ’s  a poor  one.  That ’s 
nothing  new,”  he  added,  hastily;  “it 
always  was.” 

“ There  are  flowers  and  shrubs  to 
speak  to  your  other  work,”  said  the 
child. 

“ O yes.  And  tall  trees.  But  they 
are  not  so  separated  from  the  sexton’s 
labors  as  you  think.” 

“ No!  ” 

“ Not  in  my  mind  and  recollection, 

— such  as  it  is,”  said  the  old  man. 
“ Indeed,  they  often  help  it.  For  say 
that  I planted  such  a tree  for  such  a 
man.  There  it  stands,  to  remind  me 
that  he  died.  When  I look  at  its  broad 
shadow,  and  remember  what  it  was  in 
his  time,  it  helps  me  to  the  age  of  my 
other  work,  and  I can  tell  you  pretty 
nearly  when  I made  his  grave.” 

“ But  it  may  remind  you  of  one  who 
is  still  alive,”  said  the  child. 

“ Of  twenty  that  are  dead,  in  connec- 
tion with  that  one  who  lives,  then,” 
rejoined  the  old  man  ; “ wife,  husband, 
parents,  brothers,  sisters,  children, 
friends,  — a score  at  least.  So  it  hap- 
pens that  the  sexton’s  spade  gets  worn 
and  battered.  I shall  need  a new  one 

— next  summer.” 

The  child  looked  quickly  towards 
him,  thinking  that  he  jested  with  his 
age  and  infirmity  : but  the  unconscious 
sexton  was  quite  in  earnest. 


“ Ah  ! ” he  said,  after  a brief  silence. 
“ People  never  learn.  They  never 
learn.  It ’s  only  we  who  turn  up  the 
ground,  where  nothing  grows  and  ev- 
erything decays,  who  think  of  such 
things  as  these,  — who  think  of  them 
properly,  I mean.  You  have  been  into 
the  church  ? ” 

“ I am  going  there  now,”  the  child 
replied. 

“ There ’s  an  old  well  there,”  said  the 
sexton,  “ right  underneath  the  belfry ; a 
deep,  dark,  echoing  well.  Forty  year 
ago  you  had  only  to  let  down  the  bucket 
till  the  first  knot  in  the  rope  was  free 
of  the  windlass,  and  you  heard  it  splash- 
ing in  the  cold  dull  water.  By  little 
and  little  the  water  fell  away,  so  that  in 
ten  year  after  that  a second  knot  was 
made,  and  you  must  unwind  so  much 
rope,  or  the  bucket  swung  tight  and 
empty  at  the  end.  _ In  ten  years’  time, 
the  water  fell  again,  and  a third  knot 
was  made.  In  ten  year  more,  the 
well  dried  up  ; and  now,  if  you  lower 
the  bucket  till  your  arms  are  tired,  and 
let  out  nearly  all  the  cord,  you  ’ll  hear 
it  of  a sudden,  clanking  and  rattling  on 
the  ground  below,  with  a sound  of 
being  so  deep  and  so  far  down,  that 
your  heart  leaps  into  your  mouth,  and 
you  start  away  as  if  you  were  falling  in.” 

“ A dreadful  place  to  come  on  in  the 
dark  ! ” exclaimed  the  child,  who  had 
followed  the  old  man’s  looks  and  words 
until  she  seemed  to  stand  upon  its 
brink. 

“What  is  it  but  a grave?”  said  the 
sexton.  “What  else!  And  which  of 
our  old  folks,  knowing  all  this,  thought, 
as  the  spring  subsided,  of  their  own 
failing  strength  and  lessening  life  ? Not 
one  1 ” 

“ Are  you  very  old  yourself?  ” asked 
the  child,  involuntarily. 

“ I shall  be  seventy  - nine  — next 
summer.” 

“ You  still  work  when  you  are  well  ?” 

“ Work  ! To  be  sure.  You  shall 
see  my  gardens  hereabout.  Look  at 
the  window  there.  I made  and  have 
kept  that  plot  of  ground  entirely  with 
my  own  hands.  By  this  time  next  year 
I shall  hardly  see  the  sky,  the  boughs 
will  have  grown  so  thick.  I have  my 
winter  work  at  night  besides.” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


231 


He  opened,  as  he  spoke,  a cupboard 
close  to  where  he  sat,  and  produced 
some  miniature  boxes,  carved  in  a 
homely  manner  and  made  of  old  wood. 

“ Some  gentlefolks  who  are  fond  of 
ancient  days,  and  what  belongs  to 
them,”  he  said,  “like  to  buy  these 
keepsakes  from  our  church  and  ruins. 
Sometimes  I make  them  of  scraps  of 
oak,  that  turn  up  here  and  there  ; some- 
times of  bits  of  coffins  which  the  vaults 
have  long  preserved.  See  here  ; this  is 
a little  chest  of  the  last  kind,  clasped  at 
the  edges  with  fragments  of  brass  plates 
that  had  writing  on  ’em  once,  though  it 
would  be  hard  to  read  it  now.  I 
haven’t  many  by  me  at  this  time  of 
year,  but  these  shelves  will  be  full  — 
next  summer.” 

The  child  admired  and  praised  his 
work,  and  shortly  afterwards  departed  ; 
thinking  as  she  went  how  strange  it  was, 
that  this  old  man,  drawing  from  his  pur- 
suits, and  everything  around  him,  one 
stern  moral,  never  contemplated  its 
application  to  himself ; and,  while  he 
dwelt  upon  the  uncertainty  of  human 
life,  seemed  both  in  word  and  deed  to 
deem  himself  immortal.  But  her  mus- 
ings  did  not  stop  here,  for  she  was  wise 
enough  to  think  that  by  a good  and 
merciful  adjustment  this  must  be  hu- 
man nature,  and  that  the  old  sexton, 
with  his  plans  for  next  summer,  was  but 
a type  of  all  mankind. 

Full  of  these  meditations,  she  reached 
the  chuich.  It  was  easy  to  find  the 
key  belonging  to  the  outer  door,  for 
each  was  labelled  on  a scrap  of  yellow 
parchment.  Its  very  turning  in  the  lock 
awoke  a hollow  sound,  and  when  she 
entered  with  a faltering  step,  the  echoes 
that  it  raised  in  closing  made  her  start. 

If  the  peace  of  the  simple  village  had 
moved  the  child  more  strongly,  because 
of  the  dark  and  troubled  ways  that  lay 
beyond,  and  through  which  she  had 
journeyed  with  such  failing  feet,  what 
was  the  deep  impression  of  finding  her-^ 
self  alone  in  that  solemn  building,  where* 
the  very  light,  coming  through  sunken 
windows,  seemed  old  and  gray,  and  the 
air,  redolent  of  earth  and  mould,  seemed 
laden  with  decay,  purified  by  time  of 
all  its  grosser  particles,  and  sighing 
through  arch  and  aisle,  and  clustered 


pillars,  like  the  breath  of  ages  gone  ! 
Here  was  the  broken  pavement,  worn 
so  long  ago  by  pious  feet,  that  Time, 
stealing  on  the  pilgrims’  steps,  had 
trodden  out  their  track,  and  left  but 
crumbling  stones.  Here  were  the  rot- 
ten beam,  the  sinking  arch,  the  sapped 
and  mouldering  wall,  the  lowly  trench 
of  earth,  the  stately  tomb  on  which  no 
epitaph  remained;  all — marble,  stone, 
iron,  wood,  and  dust  — one  common 
monument  of  ruin.  The  best  work  and 
the  worst,  the  plainest  and  the  richest, 
the  stateliest  and  the  least  imposing, 
both  of  Heaven’s  work  and  Man’s, — all 
found  one  common  level  here,  and  told 
one  common  tale. 

Some  part  of  the  edifice  had  been  a 
baronial  chapel,  and  here  were  effigies 
of  warriors,  stretched  upon  their  beds 
of  stone  with  folded  hands,  — cross- 
legged,  those  who  had  fought  in  the 
Holy  Wars,  — girded  with  their  swords, 
and  cased  in  armor  as  they  had  lived. 
Some  of  these  knights  had  their  own 
weapons,  helmets,  coats-of-mail,  hang- 
ing upon  the  walls  hard  by,  and  dangling 
from  rusty  hooks.  Broken  and  dilapi- 
dated as  they  were,  they  yet  retained 
their  ancient  form  and  something  of 
their  ancient  aspect.  Thus  violent 
deeds  live  after  men  upon  the  earth, 
and  traces  of  war  and  bloodshed  will 
survive  in  mournful  shapes,  long  after 
those  who  worked  the  desolation  are 
but  atoms  of  earth  themselves. 

The  child  sat  down,  in  this  old,  silent 
place,  among  the  stark  figures  on  the 
tombs,  — they  made  it  more  quiet  there, 
than  elsewhere,  to  her  fancy,  — and  gaz- 
ing round  with  a feeling  of  awe,  tem- 
pered with  a calm  delight,  felt  that  now 
she  was  happy  and  at  rest.  She  took 
a Bible  from  the  shelf,  and  read  ; then, 
laying  it  down,  thought  of  the  summer 
days  and  the  bright  spring-time  that 
would  come,  of  the  rays  of  sun  that 
would  fall  in  aslant  upon  the  sleeping 
forms,  of  the  leaves  that  would  flutter 
at  the  window,  and  play  in  glistening 
shadows  on  the  pavement,  of  the 
songs  of  birds,  and  growth  of  buds  and 
blossoms  out  of  doors,  of  the  sweet 
air,  that  would  steal  in,  and  gently  wave 
the  tattered  banners  overhead.  What 
if  the  spot  awakened  thoughts  of  death  ! 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


' 232 

Die  who  would,  it  would  still  remain 
the  same  ; these  sights  and  sounds 
would  still  go  on  as  happily  as  ever. 
It  would  be  no  pain  to  sleep  amidst 
them. 

She  left  the  chapel,  very  slowly  and 
often  turning  back  to  gaze  again,  and 
coming  to  a low  door,  which  plainly  led 
into  the  tower,  opened  it,  and  climbed 
the  winding  stair  in  darkness ; save 
where  she  looked  down,  through  narrow 
loopholes,  on  the  place  she  had  left,  or 
caught  a glimmering  vision  of  the  dusty 
bells.  At  length  she  gained  the  end  of 
the  ascent  and  stood  upon  the  turret  top. 

O,  the  glory  of  the  sudden  burst  of 
light ; the  freshness  of  the  fields  and 
woods,  stretching  away  on  every  side, 
and  meeting  the  bright  blue  sky  ; the 
cattle  grazing  in  the  pasturage ; the 
smoke,  that,  coming  from  among  the 
trees,  seemed  to  rise  upward  from  the 
green  earth ; the  children  yet  at  their 
gambols  down  below,  — all,  everything 
so  beautiful  and  happy  ! It  was  like 
passing  from  death  to  life  ; it  was  draw- 
ing nearer  Heaven. 

The  children  were  gone  when  she 
emerged  into  the  porch  and  locked  the 
door.  As  she  passed  the  schoolhouse, 
she  could  hear  the  busy  hum  of  voices. 
Her  friend  had  begun  his  labors  only 
that  day.  The  noise  grew  louder,  and, 
looking  back,  she  saw  the  boys  come 
trooping  out  and  disperse  themselves, 
with  merry  shouts  and  play.  “ It ’s  a 
good  thing,”  thought  the  child  ; “I  am 
very  glad  they  pass  the  church.”  And 
then  she  stopped,  to  fancy  how  the  noise 
would  sound  inside,  and  how  gently  it 
would  seem  to  die  away  upon  the  ear. 

Again  that  day,  yes,  twice  again,  she 
stole  back  to  the  old  chapel,  and  in  her 
former  seat  read  from  the  same  book, 
or  indulged  the  same  quiet  train  of 
thought.  Even  when  it  had  grown 
dusk,  and  the  shadows  of  coming  night 
made  it  more  solemn  still,  the  child  re- 
mained, like  one  rooted  to  the  spot,  and 
had  no  fear  or  thought  of  stirring. 

They  found  her  there,  at  last,  and 
took  her  home.  She  looked  pale  but 
very  happy,  until  they  separated  for  the 
night ; and  then,  as  the  poor  school- 
master stooped  down  to  kiss  her  cheek, 
he  thought  he  felt  a tear  upon  his  face. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

The  bachelor,  among  his  various  oc- 
cupations, found  in  the  old  church  a 
constant  source  of  interest  and  amuse- 
ment. Taking  that  pride  in  it  which 
men  conceive  for  the  wonders  of  their 
own  little  world,  he  had  made  its  his- 
tory his  study;  and  many  a summer 
day  within  its  walls,  and  many  a win- 
ter’s night  beside  the  parsonage  fire, 
had  found  the  bachelor  still  poring 
over,  and  adding  to,  his  goodly  store  of 
tale  and  legend. 

As  he  was  not  one  of  those  rough  spir- 
its who  would  strip  fair  Truth  of  every 
little  shadowy  vestment  in  which  time 
and  teeming  fancies  love  to  array  her,  — 
and  some  of  which  become  her  pleas- 
antly enough,  serving,  like  the  waters 
of  her  well,  to  add  new  graces  to  the 
charms  they  half  conceal  and  half  sug- 
gest, and  to  awaken  interest  and  pur- 
suit, rather  than  languor  and  indiffer- 
ence,— as,  unlike  this  stern  and  obdu- 
rate class,  he  loved  to  see  the  goddess 
crowned  with  those  garlands  of  wild- 
flowers  which  tradition  wreathes  for 
her  gentle  wearing,  and  which  are  often 
freshest  in  their  homeliest  shapes,  — he 
trod  with  a light  step,  and  bore  with  a 
light  hand  fipon  the  dust  of  centuries, 
unwilling  to  demolish  any  of  the  airy 
shrines  that  had  been  raised  above  it, 
if  any  good  feeling  or  affection  of  the 
human  heart  w'ere  hiding  thereabouts. 
Thus,  in  the  case  of  an  ancient  coffin  of 
rough  stone,  supposed,  for  many  gener- 
ations, to  contain  the  bones  of  a certain 
baron,  who,  after  ravaging  with  cut, 
and  thrust,  and  plunder,  in  foreign 
lands,  came  back  with  a ‘penitent  and 
sorrowing  heart  to  die  at  home,  but 
which  had  been  lately  shown  by  learned 
antiquaries  to  be  no  such  thing,  as  the 
baron  in  question  (so  they  contended) 
had  died  hard  in  battle,  gnashing  his 
teeth  and  cursing  with  his  latest  breath, 
— the  bachelor  stoutly  maintained  that 
rfie  old  tale  was  the  true  one ; that  the 
baron,  repenting  him  of  the  evil,  had 
done  great  charities  and  meekly  given 
up  the  ghost;  and  that,  if  ever  baron 
went  to  heaven,  that  baron  was  then  at 
peace.  In  like  manner,  when  the  afore- 
said antiquaries  did  argue  and  contend 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


233 


that  a certain  secret  vault  was  not  the 
tomb  of  a gray-haired  lady  who  had 
been  hanged  and  drawn  and  quartered 
by  glorious  Queen  Bess  for  succoring  a 
wretched  priest  who  fainted  of  thirst 
and  hunger  at  her  door,  the  bachelor 
did  solemnly  maintain,  against  all  com- 
ers, that  the  church  was  hallowed  by 
the  said  poor  lady’s  ashes ; that  her 
remains  had  been  collected  in  the  night 
from  four  of  the  city’s  gates,  and  thither 
in  secret  brought,  and  there  deposited  ; 
and  the  bachelor  did  further  (being 
highly  excited  at  such  times)  deny  the 
glory  of  Queen  Bess,  and  assert  the  im- 
measurably greater  glory  of  the  mean- 
est woman  in  her  realm,  who  had  a 
merciful  and  tender  heart.  As  to  the 
assertion  that  the  flat  stone  near  the 
door  was  not  the  grave  of  the  miser  who 
had  disowned  his  only  child,  and  left  a 
sum  of  money  to  the  church  to  buy  a 
peal  of  bells,  the  bachelor  did  readily 
admit  the  same,  and  that  the  place  had 
given  birth  to  no  such  man.  In  a word, 
he  would  have  had  every  stone  and 
plate  of  brass  the  monument  only  of 
deeds  whose  memory  should  survive. 
All  others  he  was  willing  to  forget. 
They  might  be  buried  in  consecrated 
ground,  but  he  would  have  had  them 
buried  deep,  and  never  brought  to  light 
again. 

It  was  from  the  lips  of  such  a tutor 
that  the  child  learnt  her  easy  task. 
Already  impressed,  beyond  all  telling, 
by  the  silent  building  and  the  peace- 
ful beauty  of  the  spot  in  which  it 
stood,  — majestic  age  surrounded  by 
perpetual  youth,  — it  seemed  to  her, 
when  she  heard  these  things,  sacred  to 
all  goodness  and  virtue.  It  was  an- 
other world,  where  sin  and  sorrow  nev- 
er came ; a tranquil  place  of  rest,  where 
nothing  evil  entered. 

When  the  bachelor  had  given  her  in 
connection  with  almost  every  tomb  and 
flat  gravestone  some  history  of  its  own, 
he  took  her  down  into  the  old  crypt,  now 
a mere  dull  vault,  and  showed  her  how 
it  had  been  lighted  up  in  the  time  of  the 
monks,  and  how,  amid  lamps  depending 
from  the  roof,  and  swinging  censers  ex- 
haling scented  odors,  and  habits  glitter- 
ing with  gold  and  silver,  and  pictures, 
and  precious  stuffs,  and  jewels  all 


flashing  and  glistening  through  the  low 
arches,  the  chant  of  aged  voices  had 
been  many  a time  heard  there,  at  mid- 
night, in  old  days,  while  hooded  figures 
knelt  and  prayed  around,  and  told  their 
rosaries  of  beads.  Thence  he  took  her 
above  ground  again,  and  showed  her, 
high  up  in  the  old  walls,  small  galler- 
ies, where  the  nuns  had  been  wont  to 
glide  along  — dimly  seen  in  their  dark 
dresses  so  far  off — or  to  pause  like 
gloomy  shadows,  listening  to  the  prayers. 
He  showed  her,  too,  how  the  warriors 
whose  figures  rested  on  the  tombs  had 
worn  those  rotting  scraps  of  armor  up 
above,  — how  this  had  been  a helmet, 
and  that  a shield,  and  that  a gaunt- 
let, — and  how  they  had  wielded  the 
great  two-handed  swords,  and  beaten 
men  down  with  yonder  iron  mace. 
All  that  he  told  the  child  she  treas- 
ured in  her  mind  ; and  sometimes, 
when  she  awoke  at  night  from  dreams 
of  those  old  times,  and,  rising  from  her 
bed,  looked  out  at  the  dark  church, 
she  almost  hoped  to  see  the  windows 
lighted  up,  and  hear  the  organ’s  swell, 
and  sound  of  voices,  on  the  rushing 
wind. 

The  old  sexton  soon  got  better  and 
was  about  again.  From  him  the  child 
learnt  many  other  things,  though  of  a 
different  kind.  He  was  not  able  to 
work,  but  one  day  there  was  a grave 
to  be  made,  and  he  came  to  overlook 
the  man  who  dug  it.  He  was  in  a 
talkative  mood;  and  the  child,  at  first 
standing  by  his  side,  and  afterwards 
sitting  on  the  grass  at  his  feet,  with 
her  thoughtful  face  raised  towards  his, 
began  to  converse  with  him. 

Now,  the  man  who  did  the  sexton’s 
duty  was  a little  older  than  he,  though 
much  more  active.  But  he  was  deaf; 
and  when  the  sexton  (who  peradven- 
ture,  on  a pinch,  might  have  walked 
a mile  with  great  difficulty  in  half  a 
dozen  hours)  exchanged  a remark  with 
him  about  his  work,  the  child  could 
not  help  noticing  that  he  did  so  with 
an  impatient  kind  of  pity  for  his  in- 
firmity, as  if  he  were  himself  the 
strongest  and  heartiest  man  alive. 

“ I ’m  sorry  to  see  there  is  this  to  do,’* 
said  the  child,  when  she  approached. 
“I  heard  of  no  one  having  died.” 


234 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“ She  lived  in  another  hamlet,  my 
dear,”  returned  the  sexton.  “Three 
mile  away.” 

“Was  she  young? ” 

“Ye — yes,”  said  the  sexton;  “not 
more  than  sixty-four,  I think.  David, 
was  she  more  than  sixty-four?” 

David,  who  was  digging  hard,  heard 
nothing  of  the  question.  The  sexton, 
as  he  could  not  reach  to  touch  him 
with  his  crutch,  and  was  too  infirm  to 
rise  without  assistance,  called  his  at- 
tention by  throwing  a little  mould  up- 
on his  red  nightcap. 

“What’s  the  matter  now?”  said 
David,  looking  up. 

“How  old  was  Becky  Morgan?” 
asked  the  sexton. 

“ Becky  Morgan?  ” repeated  David. 

“Yes,”  replied  the  sexton  ; adding  in 
a half-compassionate,  half-irritable  tone, 
which  the  old  man  could  n’t  hear, 
“you’re  getting  very  deaf,  Davy,  very 
deaf  to  be  sure  ! ” 

The  old  man  stopped  in  his  work, 
and  cleansing  his  spade  with  a piece  of 
slate  he  had  by  him  for  the  purpose,  — 
and  scraping  off,  in  the  process,  the 
essence  of  Heaven  knows  how  many 
Becky  Morgans,  — set  himself  to  con- 
sider the  subject. 

“Let  me  think,”  quoth  he.  “I  saw 
last  night  what  they  had  put  upon  the 
coffin, — was  it  seventy-nine?” 

“No,  no,”  said  the  sexton. 

“Ah  yes,  it  was,  though,”  returned 
the  old  man  with  a sigh.  “For  I re- 
member thinking  she  was  very  near  our 
age.  Yes,  it  was  seventy-nine.” 

“ Are  you  sure  you  did  n’t  mistake  a 
figure,  Davy?”  asked  the  sexton,  with 
signs  of  some  emotion. 

“What?”  said  the  old  man.  “Say 
that  again.” 

“He’s  very  deaf.  He’s  very  deaf, 
indeed,”  cried  the  sexton,  petulantly. 
“ Are  you  sure  you  ’re  right  about  the 
figures  ? ” 

“ O,  quite,”  replied  the  old  man. 
“Why  not?  ” 

“ He ’s  exceedingly  deaf,”  muttered 
the  sexton  to  himself.  “ I think  he  ’s 
getting  foolish.” 

The  child  rather  wondered  what  had 
led  him  to  this  belief,  as,  to  say  the  truth, 
the  old  man  seemed  quite  as  sharp  as 


he,  and  was  infinitely  more  robust.  As 
the  sexton  said  nothing  more  just  then, 
however,  she  forgot  it  for  the  time,  and 
spoke  again. 

“ You  were  telling  me,”  she  said, 
“ about  your  gardening.  Do  you  ever 
plant  things  here  ? ” 

“ In  the  churchyard?  ” returned  the 
sexton.  “ Not  I.” 

“ I have  seen  some  flowers  and  little 
shrubs  about,”  the  child  rejoined ; 
“ there  are  some  over  there,  you  see. 
I thought  they  were  of  your  rearing, 
though  indeed  they  grow  but  poorly.” 

“ They  grow  as  Heaven  wills,”  said 
the  old  man  ; “ and  it  kindly  ordains 
that  they  shall  never  flourish  here.” 

“ I do  not  understand  you.” 

“ Why,  this  it  is,”  said  the  sexton. 
“ They  mark  the  graves  of  those  who 
had  very  tender,  loving  friends.” 

“I  was  stire  they  did  ! ” the  child 
exclaimed.  “ I am  very  glad  to  know 
they  do ! ” 

“Ay,”  returned  the  old  man;  “but 
stay.  Look  at  them.  See  how  they 
hang  their  heads,  and  droop,  and  with- 
er. Do  you  guess  the  reason  ? ” 

“ No,”  the  child  replied. 

“ Because  the  memory  of  those  who 
lie  below  passes  away  so  soon.  At 
first  they  tend  them,  morning,  noon, 
and  night ; they  soon  begin  to  come 
less  frequently ; from  once  a day  to 
once  a week  ; from  once  a week  to  once 
a month  ; then  at  long  and  uncertain 
intervals  ; then  not  at  all.  Such  tokens 
seldom  flourish  long.  I have  known 
the  briefest  summer  flowers  outlive 
them.” 

“ I grieve  to  hear  it,”  said  the  child. 
“Ah!  so  say  the  gentlefolks  who 
come  down  here  to  look  about  them,” 
returned  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head, 
“but  I say  otherwise.  ‘It’s  a pretty 
custom  you  have  in  this  part  of  the 
country,’  they  say  to  me  sometimes, 
‘ to  plant  the  graves,  but  it ’s  melan- 
choly to  see  these  things  all  withering 
or  dead.’  I crave  their  pardon  and  tell 
them  that,  as  I take  it,  ’t  is  a good  sign 
for  the  happiness  of  the  living.  And  so 
it  is.  It ’s  nature.” 

“ Perhaps  the  mourners  learn  to  look 
to  the  blue  sky  by  day,  and  to  the  stars 
by  night,  and  to  think  that  the  dead  are 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


235 


there,  and  not  in  graves,”  said  the 
child  in  an  earnest  voice. 

“Perhaps  so,”  replied  the  old  man, 
doubtfully.  “ It  may  be.” 

“ Whether  it  be  as  I believe  it  is,  or 
no,”  thought  the  child  within  herself, 
“ I ’ll  make  this  place  my  garden.  It 
will  be  no  harm  at  least  to  work  here 
day  by  day,  and  pleasant  thoughts  will 
come  of  it,  I am  sure.” 

Her  glowing  cheek  and  moistened  eye 
passed  unnoticed  by  the  sexton,  who 
turned  towards  old  David,  and  called 
him  by  his  name.  It  was  plain  that 
Becky  Morgan’s  age  still  troubled  him  ; 
though  why,  the  child  could  scarcely 
understand. 

The  second  or  third  repetition  of  his 
name  attracted  the  old  man’s  attention. 
Pausing  from  his  work,  he  leant  on 
his  spade,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  dull 
ear. 

“ Did  you  call  ? ” he  said. 

“ I have  been  thinking,  Davy,”  re- 
plied the  sexton,  “ that  she,”  he  pointed 
to  the  grave,  “ must  have  been  a deal 
older  than  you  or  me.” 

“Seventy-nine,”  answered  the  old 
man,  with  a shake  of  the  head,  “ I tell 
you  that  I saw  it.” 

“Saw  it?”  replied  the  sexton  ; “ay, 
but,  Davy,  women  don’t  always  tell 
the  truth  about  their  age.” 

“ That  ’s%true,  indeed,”  said  the  other 
old  man,  with  a sudden  sparkle  in  his 
eye.  “ She  might  have  been  older.” 

“ I ’m  sure  she  must  have  been. 
Why,  only  think  how  old  she  looked. 
You  and  I seemed  but  boys  to  her.” 

“ She  did  look  old,”  rejoined  David. 
“You  ’re  right.  She  did  look  old.” 

“ Call  to  mind  how  old  she  looked  for 
many  a long,  long  year,  and  say  if  she 
could  be  but  seventy-nine  at  last,  — only 
our  age,”  said  the  sexton. 

“ Five  year  older  at  the  very  least ! ” 
cried  the  other. 

“ Five  ! ” retorted  the  sexton.  “Ten. 
Good  eighty-nine.  I call  to  mind  the 
time  her  daughter  died.  She  was 
eighty-nine  if  she  was  a day,  and  tries 
to  pass  upon  us  now  for  ten  year  young- 
er. O human  vanity  ! ” 

The  other  old  man  was  not  behind- 
hand with  some  moral  reflections  on 
this  fruitful  theme,  and  both  adduced  a 


mass  of  evidence,  of  such  weight  as  to 
render  it  doubtful,  not  whether  the 
deceased  was  of  the  age  suggested,  but 
whether  she  had  not  almost  reached  the 
patriarchal  term  of  a hundred.  When 
they  had  settled  this  question  to  their 
mutual  satisfaction,  the  sexton,  with 
his  friend’s  assistance,  rose  to  go. 

“ It’s  chilly,  sitting  here,  and  I must 
be  careful  — till  the  summer,”  he  said, 
as  he  prepared  to  limp  away. 

“ What  ? ” asked  old  David. 

“ He ’s  very  deaf,  poor  fellow  ! ” 
cried  the  sexton.  “ Good  by.” 

“ Ah  ! ” said  old  David,  looking  after 
him.  “ He ’s  failing  very  fast.  He 
ages  every  day.” 

And  so  they  parted ; each  persuaded 
that  the  other  had  less  life  in  him  than 
himself;  and  both  greatly  consoled  and 
comforted  by  the  little  fiction  they  had 
agreed  upon,  respecting  Becky  Mor- 
gan, whose  decease  was  no  longer  a pre- 
cedent of  uncomfortable  application,  and 
would  be  no  business  of  theirs  for  half 
a score  of  years  to  come. 

The  child  remained,  for  some  min- 
utes, watching  the  deaf  old  man  as  he 
threw  out  the  earth  with  his  shovel, 
and,  often  stopping  to  cough  and 
fetch  his  breath,  still  muttered  to  him- 
self, with  a kind  of  sober  chuckle,  that 
the  sexton  was  wearing  fast.  At  length 
she  turned  away,  and,  walking  thought- 
fully through  the  churchyard,  came  un- 
expectedly upon  the  schoolmaster,  who 
was  sitting  on  a green  grave  in  the  sun, 
reading. 

“Nell  here?”  he  said,  cheerfully,  as 
he  closed  his  book.  “ It  does  me  good 
to  see  you  in  the  air  and  light.  I feared 
you  were  again  in  the  church,  where  you 
so  often  are.” 

“ Feared  ! ” replied  the  child,  sitting 
down  beside  him.  “ Is  it  not  a good 
place?  ” 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  the  schoolmaster. 
“ But  you  must  be  gay  sometimes. 
Nay,  don’t  shake  your  head  and  smile 
so  sadly.” 

“Not  sadly,  if  you  knew  my  heart. 
Do  not  look  at  me  as  if  you  thought  me 
sorrowful.  There  is  not  a happier  crea- 
ture on  the  earth,  than  I am  now.” 

Full  of  grateful  tenderness,  the  child 
took  his  hand  and  folded  it  between 


236 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


her  own.  “ It ’s  God’s  will ! ” she  said, 
when  they  had  been  silent  for  some 
time. 

“What?” 

“ All  this,”  she  rejoined,  — “ all  this 
about  us.  But  which  of  us  is  sad  now  ? 
You  see  that  I am  smiling.” 

“And  so  am  I,”  said  the  school- 
master; “smiling  to  think  how  often 
we  shall  laugh  in  this  same  place. 
Were  you  not  talking  yonder?” 
“Yes,”  the  child  rejoined. 

“Of  something  that  has  made  you 
sorrowful  ? ” 

There  was  a long  pause. 

“What  was  it?”  said  the  school- 
master, tenderly.  “ Come.  Tell  me 
what  it  was.” 

“ I rather  grieve,  — I do  rather  grieve 
to  think,”  said  the  child,  bursting  into 
tears,  “that  those  who  die  about  us 
are  so  soon  forgotten.” 

“ And  do  you  think,”  said  the  school- 
master, marking  the  glance  she  had 
thrown  around,  “ that  an  un  visited  grave, 
a withered  tree,  a faded  flower  or  two, 
are  tokens  of  forgetfulness  or  cold  neg- 
lect? * Do  you  think  there  are  no 
deeds,  far  away  from  here,  in  which 
these  dead  may  be  best  remembered? 
Nell,  Nell,  there  may  be  people  busy  in 
the  world,  at  this  instant,  in  whose  good 
actions  and  good  thoughts  these  very 
graves  — neglected  as  they  look  to  us 
— are  the  chief  instruments.” 

“Tell  me  no  more,”  said  the  child, 
quickly.  “Tell  me  no  more.  I feel, 
I know  it.  How  could  / be  unmindful 
of  it,  when  I thought  of  you?  ” 

“ There  is  nothing,”  cried  her  friend, 
“ no,  nothing  innocent  or  good,  that 
dies  and  is  forgotten.  Let  us  hold  to 
that  faith,  or  none.  An  infant,  a prat- 
tling child,  dying  in  its  cradle,  will  live 
again  in  the  better  thoughts  of  those 
who  loved  it,  and  will  play  its  £>art, 
through  them,  in  the  redeeming  actions 
of  the  world,  though  its  body  be  burnt 
to  ashes  or  drowned  in  the  deepest  sea. 
There  is  not  an  angel  added  to  the 
Hosf  of  Heaven  but  does  its  blessed 
work  on  earth  in  those  that  loved  it 
here.  Forgotten  ! O,  if  the  good  deeds 
of  human  creatures  could  be  traced  to 
their  source,  how  beautiful  would  even 
death  appear ; for  how  much  charity, 


mercy,  and  purified  affection  would  be 
seen  to  have  their  growth  in  dusty 
graves  ! ” 

“Yes,”  said  the  child,  “it  is  the 
truth ; I know  it  is.  Who  should  feel 
its  force  so  much  as  I,  in  whom  your  lit- 
tle scholar  lives  again  ! Dear,  dear, 
good  friend,  if  you  knew  the  comfort 
you  have  given  me ! ” 

The  poor  schoolmaster  made  her  no 
answer,  but  bent  over  her  in  silence; 
for  his  heart  was  full. 

They  were  yet  seated  in  the  same 
place,  when  the  grandfather  approached. 
Before  they  had  spoken  many  words 
together,  the  church-clock  struck  the 
hour  of  school,  and  their  friend  with- 
drew. 

“ A good  man,”  said  the  grandfather, 
looking  after  him  ; “ a kind  man.  Sure- 
ly he  will  never  harm  us,  Nell.  We  are 
safe  here,  at  last,  eh?  We  will  never 
go  away  from  here  ? ” 

The  child  shook  her  head  and  smiled. 

“She  needs  rest,”  said  the  old  man, 
patting  her  cheek  ; “ too  pale,  — too 
pale.  She  is  not  like  what  she  was  ? ” 

“ When  ? ” asked  the  child. 

“Ha!”  said  the  old  man,  “to  be 
sure  — when  ? How  many  weeks  ago  ? 
Could  I count  them  on  my  fingers? 
Let  them  rest,  though ; they  ’re  better 
gone.” 

“ Much  better,  dear,”  replied  the 
child.  “We  will  forget  therrt  ; or,  if  we 
ever  call  them  to  mind,  it  shall  be  only 
as  some  uneasy  dream  that  has  passed 
away.” 

“ Hush  ! ” said  the  old  man,  motion- 
ing hastily  to  her  with  his  hand  and 
looking  over  his  shoulder;  “ no  more 
talk  of  the  dream,  and  all  the  miseries 
it  brought.  There  are  no  dreams  here. 
’T  is  a quiet  place,  and  they  keep  away. 
Let  us  never  think  about  them,  lest 
they  should  pursue  us  again.  Sunken 
eyes  and  hollow  cheeks,  — wet,  cold, 
and  famine,  — and  horrors  before  them 
all,  that  were  even  worse,  — we  must 
forget  such  things  if  we  would  be  tran- 
quil here.” 

“ Thank  Heaven  ! ” inwardly  ex- 
claimed the  child,  “ for  this  most  happy 
change ! ” 

“ I will  be  patient,”  said  the  old  man, 
“ humble,  very  thankful  and  obedient, 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


237 


if  you  will  let  me  stay.  But  do  not 
hide  from  me  ; do  not  steal  away  alone  ; 
let  me  keep  beside  you.  Indeed,  I will 
be  very  true  and  faithful,  Nell.” 

“ I steal  away  alone  ! Why,  that,” 
replied  the  child,  with  assumed  gayety, 
“ would  be  a pleasant  jest  indeed.  See 
here,  dear  grandfather,  we  ’ll  make  this 
place  our  garden,  — why  not  ? It  is  a 
very  good  one,  — and  to-morrow  we  ’ll 
begin  and  work  together  side  by  side.” 

“It  is  a brave  thought  ! ” cried  her 
grandfather.  “ Mind,  darling,  we  begin 
to-morrow  ! ” 

Who  so  delighted  as  the  old  man, 
when  they  next  day  began  their  labor  ! 
Who  so  unconscious  of  all  associations 
connected  with  the  spot,  as  he  ! They 
plucked  the  long  grass  and  nettles  from 
the  tombs,  thinned  the  poor  shrubs  and 
roots,  made  the  turf  smooth,  and  cleared 
it  of  the  leaves  and  weeds.  They  were 
yet  in  the  ardor  of  their  work,  when  the 
child,  raising  her  head  from  the  ground 
over  which  she  bent,  observed  that  the 
bachelor  was  sitting  on  the  stile  close 
by,  watching  them  in  silence. 

“ A kind  office,”  said  the  little  gentle- 
man, nodding  to  Nell  as  she  courtesied 
to  him.  “ Have  you  done  all  that  this 
morning  ? ” 

“ It  is  very  little,  sir,”  returned  the 
child,  with  downcast  eyes,  “ to  what  we 
mean  to  do.” 

“ Good  work,  good  work,”  said  the 
bachelor.  “ But  do  you  only  labor  at 
the  graves  of  children  and  young  peo- 
ple?” 

“We  shall  come  to  the  others  in  good 
time,  sir,”  replied  Nell,  turning  her 
head  aside,  and  speaking  softly. 

It  was  a slight  incident,  and  might 
have  been  design,  or  accident,  or  the 
child’s  unconscious  sympathy  with 
youth.  But  it  seemed  to  strike  upon 
her  grandfather,  though  he  had  not 
noticed  it  before.  He  looked  in  a 
hurried  manner  at  the  graves,  then 
anxiously  at  the  child,  then  pressed  her 
to  his  side,  and  bade  her  stop  to  rest. 
Something  he  had  long  forgotten  ap- 
peared to  struggle  faintly  in  his  mind. 
It  did  not  pass  away,  as  weightier  things 
had  done  ; but  came  uppermost  again, 
and  yet  again,  and  many  times  that  day, 
and  often  afterwards.  Once,  while  they 


were  yet  at  work,  the  child,  seeing  that 
he  often  turned  and  looked  uneasily  at 
her,  as  though  he  were  trying  to  resolve 
some  painful  doubts  or  collect  some 
scattered  thoughts,  urged  him  to  tell 
the  reason.  But  he  said  it  was  nothing, 
— nothing,  — and,  laying  her  head  upon 
his  arm,  patted  her  fair  cheek  with  his 
hand,  and  muttered  that  she  grew 
stronger  every  day,  and  would  be  a wo- 
man soon. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

From  that  time  there  sprung  up  in 
the  old  man’s  mind  a solicitude  about 
the  child  which  never  slept  or  left  him. 
There  are  chords  in  the  human  heart  — 
strange,  varying  strings  — which  are 
only  struck  by  accident ; which  will  re- 
main mute  and  senseless  to  appeals  the 
most  passionate  and  earnest,  and  re- 
spond at  last  to  the  slightest  casual 
touch.  In  the  most  insensible  or  child- 
ish minds,  there  is  some  train  of  reflec- 
tion which  art  can  seldom  lead,  or  skill 
attest,  but  which  will  reveal  itself,  as 
great  truths  have  done,  by  chance,  and 
when  the  discoverer  has  the  plainest 
and  simplest  end  in  view.  From  that 
time  the  old  man  never  for  a moment 
forgot  the  weakness  and  devotion  of  the 
child  ; from  the  time  of  that  slight  inci- 
dent, lie,  who  had  seen  her  toiling  by  hi? 
side  through  so  much  difficulty  and 
suffering,  and  had  scarcely  thought  oi 
her  otherwise  than  as  the  partner  ol 
miseries  which  he  felt  severely  in  his 
own  person,  and  deplored  for  his  own 
sake  at  least  as  much  as  hers,  awoke  to 
a sense  of  what  he  owed  her,  and  what 
those  miseries  had  made  her.  Never, 
no,  never  once,  in  one  unguarded  mo- 
ment from  that  time  to  the  end,  did  any 
care  for  himself,  any  thought  of  his  own 
comfort,  any  selfish  consideration  or 
regard,  distract  his  thoughts  from  the 
gentle  object  of  his  love. 

He  would  follow  her  up  and  down, 
waiting  till  she  should  tire  and  lean 
upon  his  arm, — he  would  sit  opposite 
to  her  in  the  chimney-corner,  content  to 
watch  and  look,  until  she  raised  hei 
head  and  smiled  upon  him  as  of  old,  — 
he  would  discharge  by  stealth  those., 


238 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


household  duties  which  tasked  her  pow- 
ers too  heavily,  — he  would  rise  in  the 
cold  dark  nights  to  listen  to  her  breath- 
ing in  her  sleep,  and  sometimes  crouch 
for  hours  by  her  bedside  only  to  touch 
her  hand.  He  who  knows  all  can  only 
know  what  hopes,  and  fears,  and 
thoughts  of  deep  affection,  were  in  that 
one  disordered  brain,  and  what  a change 
had  fallen  on  the  poor  old  man. 

Sometimes  — weeks  had  crept  on, 
then  — the  child,  exhausted,  though 
with  little  fatigue,  would  pass  whole 
evenings  on  a couch  beside  the  fire. 
At  such  times  the  schoolmaster  would 
bring  in  books,  and  read  to  her  aloud ; 
and  seldom  an  evening  passed,  but  the 
bachelor  came  in,  and  took  his  turn  of 
reading.  The  old  man  sat  and  listened, 
— with  little  understanding  for  the 
words,  but  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
child,  — ahd  if  she  smiled  or  brightened 
with  the  story,  he  would  say  it  was  a 
good  one,  and  conceive  a fondness  for 
the  very  book.  When,  in  their  evening 
talk,  the  bachelor  told  some  tale  that 
pleased  her  (as  his  tales  were  sure  to 
do),  the  old  man  would  painfully  try  to 
store  it  in  his  mind ; nay,  when  the 
bachelor  left  them,  he  would  sometimes 
slip  out  after  him,  and  humbly  beg  that 
he  would  tell  him  such  a part  again,  that 
lie  might  learn  to  win  a smile  from 
Nell. 

But  these  were  rare  occasions,  hap- 
pily ; for  the  child  yearned  to  be  out  of 
doors,  and  walking  in  her  solemn  gar- 
den. Parties,  too,  would  come  to  see 
the  church  ; and  those  who  came,  speak- 
ing to  others  of  the  child,  sent  more  ; 
so  even  at  that  season  of  the  year  they 
had  visitors  almost  daily.  The  old 
man  would  follow  them  at  a little  dis- 
tance through  the  building,  listening  to 
the  voice  he  loved  so  well  ; and  when 
the  strangers  left,  and  parted  from  Nell, 
he  would  mingle  with  them  to  catch  up 
fragments  of  their  conversation  ; or  he 
would  stand  for  the  same  purpose,  with 
his  gray  head  uncovered,  at  the  gate,  as 
they  passed  through. 

They  always  praised  the  child,  her 
sense  and  beauty,  and  he  was  proud  to 
hear  them  ! But  what  was  that,  so 
often  added,  which  wrung  his  heart, 
and  made  him  sob  and  weep  alone,  in 


some  dull  corner  ! Alas  ! even  careless 
strangers,  — they  who  had  no  feeling  for 
her  but  the  interest  of  the  moment, 
they  who  would  go  away  and  forget 
next  week  that  such  a being,  lived,  — 
even  they  saw  it,  even  they  pitied  her, 
even  they  bade  him  good  day  com- 
passionately, and  whispered  as  they 
passed. 

The  people  of  the  village,  too,  of 
whom  there  was  not  one  but  grew  to 
have  a fondness  for  poor  Nell;  even 
among  them  there  was  the  same  feel- 
ing, — a tenderness  towards  her,  a com- 
passionate regard  for  her,  increasing 
every  day.  The  very  school-boys,  light- 
hearted and  thoughtless  as  they  were, 
even  they  cared  for  her.  The  roughest 
among  them  w'as  sorry  if  he  missed  her 
in  the  usual  place  upon  his  way  to 
school,  and  would  turn  out  of  the  path 
to  ask  for  her  at  the  latticed  window. 
If  she  were  sitting  in  the  church,  they 
perhaps  might  peep  in  softly  at  the 
open  door  ; but  they  never  spoke  to 
her,  unless  she  rose  and  went  to  speak 
to  them.  Some  feeling  was  abroad 
which  raised  the  child  above  them  all. 

So,  when  Sunday  came.  They  were 
all  poor  country  people  in  the  church, 
for  the  castle  in  which  the  old  family 
had  lived  was  an  empty  ruin,  and  there 
were  none  but  humble  folks  for  seven 
miles  around..  There,  as  elsewhere, 
they  had  an  interest  in  . Nell.  They 
would  gather  round  her  in  the  porch, 
before  and  after  service ; young  chil- 
dren would  cluster  at  her  skirts ; and 
aged  men  and  women  forsake  their  gos- 
sips, to  give  her  kindly  greeting.  None 
of  them,  young  or  old,  thought  of  pass- 
ing the  child  without  a friendly  word. 
Many  who  came  from  three  or  four 
miles  distant  brought  her  little  pres- 
ents ; the  humblest  and*  rudest  had  good 
wishes  to  bestow. 

She  had  sought  out  the  youn°j  chil- 
dren whom  she  first  saw  playing  in  the 
churchyard.  One  of  these  — he  who 
had  spoken  of  his  brother — was  her 
little  favorite  and  friend,  and  often  sat 
by  her  side  in  the  church,  or  climbed 
with  her  to  the  tower-top.  It  was  his 
delight  to  help  her,  or  to  fancy  that  he 
did  so,  and  they  soon  became  close 
companions. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


239 


It  happened,  that,  as  she  was  reading 
in  the  old  spot  by  herself  one  day,  this 
child  came  running  in  with  his  eyes  full 
of  tears,  and  after  holding  her  from  him, 
and  looking  at  her  eagerly  for  a mo- 
ment, clasped  his  little  arms  passion- 
ately about  her  neck. 

“What  now?”  said  Nell,  soothing 
him.  “What  is  the  matter?” 

“ She  is  not  one  yet ! ” cried  the  boy, 
embracing  her  still  more  closely.  “ No, 
no.  Not  yet.” 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly,  and 
putting  his  hair  back  from  his  face,  and 
kissing  him,  asked  what  he  meant. 

“You  must  not  be  one,  dear  Nell,” 
cried  the  boy.  “We  can’t  see  them. 
They  never  come  to  play  with  us,  or 
talk  to  us.  Be  what  you  are.  You  are 
better  so.” 

“ I do  not  understand  you,”  said 
the  child.  “ Tell  me  what  you  mean.” 
“Why,  they  say,”  replied  the  boy, 
looking  up  into  her  face,  “that  you 
will  be  an  angel  before  the  birds  sing 
again.  But  you  won’t  be,  will  you? 
Don’t  leave  us,  Nell,  though  the  sky  is 
bright.  Do  not  leave  us  ! ” 

The  child  dropped  her  head,  and  put 
her  hands  before  her  face. 

“ She  cannot  bear  the  thought ! ” 
cried  the  boy,  exulting  through  his 
tears.  “You  will  not  go.  You  know 
how  sorry  we  should  be.  Dear  Nell, 
tell  me  that  you  ’ll  stay  amongst  us. 
Oh ! Pray,  pray,  tell  me  that  you  will.” 
The  little  creature  folded  his  hands, 
and  knelt  down  at  her  feet. 

“ Only  look  at  me,  Nell,”  said  the 
boy,  “ and  tell  me  that  you  ’ll  stop, 
and  then  I shall  know  that  they  are 
wrong,  and  will  cry  no  more.  Won’t 
you  say  yes,  Nell  ? ” 

Still  the  drooping  head  dfid  hidden 
face,  and  the  child  quite  silent  — save 
for  her  sobs. 

“ After  a time,”  pursued  the  boy, 
trying  to  draw  away  her  hand,  “ the 
kind  angels  will  be  glad  to  think  that 
you  are  not  among  them,  and  that  you 
stayed  here  to  be  with  us.  Willy  went 
away  to  join  them  ; but  if  he  had 
known  how  I should  miss  him  in  our 
little  bed  at  night,  he  never  would  have 
left  me,  I am  sure.” 

Yet  the  child  could  make  him  no 


answer,  and  sobbed  as  though  her 
heart  were  bursting. 

“ Why  would  you  go,  dear  Nell?  I 
know  you  would  not  be  happy  when 
you  heard  that  we  were  crying  for  your 
loss.  They  say  that  Willy  is  in  heaven 
now,  and  that  it ’s  always  summer  there, 
and  yet  I ’m  sure  he  grieves  when  I 
lie  down  upon  his  garden  bed,  and  he 
cannot  turn  to  kiss  me.  But  if  you  do 
go,  Nell,”  said  the  boy,  caressing  her, 
and  pressing  his  face  to  hers,  “be  fond 
of  him  for  my  sake.  Tell  him  how  I 
love  him  still,  and  how  much  I loved 
you ; and  when  I think  .that  you  two 
are  together,  and  are  happy,  I ’ll  try  to 
bear  it,  and  never  give  you  pain  by 
doing  wrong  ; indeed  I never  will  ! ” 

The  child  suffered  him  to  move  her 
hands,  and  put  them  round  his  neck. 
There  was  a tearful  silence,  but  it  was 
not  long  before  she  looked  upon  him 
with  a smile,  and  promised  him  in  a 
very  gentle,  quiet  voice,  that  she  would 
stay  and  be  his  friend  as  long  as  Heav- 
en would  let  her.  He  clapped  his 
hands  for  joy,  and  thanked  her  many 
times,  and,  being  charged  to  tell  no 
person  what  had  passed  between  them, 
gave  her  an  earnest  promise  that  he 
never  w^ould. 

Nor  did  he,  so  far  as  the  child  could 
learn,  but  was  her  quiet  companion  in 
all  her  walks  and  musings,  and  never 
again  adverted  to  the  theme,  which  he 
felt  had  given  her  pain,  although  he 
was  unconscious  of  its  cause.  Some- 
thing of  distrust  lingered  about  him 
still  ; for  he  would  often  come,  even  in 
the  dark  evenings,  and  call  in  a timid 
voice  outside  the  door  to  know  if  she 
were  safe  within ; and  being  answered 
yes,  and  bade  to  enter,  would  take  his 
station  on  a low  stool  at  her  feet,  and 
sit  there  patiently  until  they  came  to 
seek  and  take  him  home.  Sure  as  the 
morning  came  it  found  him  lingering 
near  the  house  to  ask  if  she  were  well ; 
and  morning,  noon,  or  night,  go  where 
she  would,  he  would  forsake  his  play-< 
mates  and  his  sports  to  bear  her  com' 
pany. 

“ And  a good  little  friend  he  is,  too,” 
said  the  old  sexton  to  her  once.  “ When 
his  elder  brother  died — elder  seems  a 
strange  word,  for  he  was  only  sevei' 


240 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


year  old  — I remember  this  one  took  it 
sorely  to  heart.” 

The  child  thought  of  what  the  school- 
master had  told  her,  and  felt  how  its 
truth  was  shadowed  out  even  in  this 
infant. 

“It  has  given  him  something  of  a quiet 
way,  I think,”  said  the  old  man,  “though 
for  that  he  is  merry  enough  at  times. 
I ’d  wager  now  that  you  and  he  have 
been  listening  by  the  old  well.” 

“ Indeed  we  have  not,”  the  child  re- 
plied. “ I have  been  afraid  to  go  near 
it ; for  I am  not  often  down  in  that  part 
of  the  church,  and  do  not  know  the 
ground.” 

“ Come  down  with  me,”  said  the  old 
man.  “ I have  known  it  from  a boy. 
Come  ! ” 

They  descended  the  narrow  steps 
which  led  into  the  crypt,  and  paused 
among  the  gloomy  arches,  in  a dim  and 
murky  spot. 

“This  is  the  place,”  said  the  old 
man.  “ Give  me  your  hand  while  you 
throw  back  the  cover,  lest  you  should 
stumble  and  fall  in.  I am  too  old  — I 
mean  rheumatic  — to  stoop  myself.” 

“A  black  and  dreadful  place  ! ” ex- 
claimed the  child. 

“Look  in,  ” said  the  old  man,  point- 
ing downward  with  his  finger. 

The  child  complied,  and  gazed  down 
into  the  pit. 

“It  looks  like  a grave  itself,”  said 
the  old  man. 

“ It  does,”  replied  the  child. 

“ I have  often  had  the  fancy,”  said 
the  sexton,  “ that  it  might  have  been 
dug  at  first  to  make  the  old  place  more 
gloomy,  and  the  old  monks  more  relig- 
ious. It ’s  to  be  closed  up,  and  built 
over.” 

The  child  still  stood,  looking  thought- 
fully into  the  vault. 

“We  shall  see,”  said  the  sexton,  “on 
what  gay  heads  other  earth  will  have 
closed  when  the  light  is  shut  out  from 
here.  God  knows  ! They  ’ll  close  it 
up  next  spring.” 

“The  birds  sing  again  in  spring,” 
thought  the  child,  as  she  leaned  at  her 
casement  window,  and  gazed  at  the  de- 
clining sun.  “ Spring  ! a beautiful  and 
happy  time  ! ” 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

A day  or  tvro  after  the  Quilp  tea- 
party  at  the  Wilderness,  Mr.  Swiveller 
walked  into  Sampson  Brass’s  office  at 
the  usual  hour,  and  being  alone  in  that 
Temple  of  Probity,  placed  his  hat  upon 
the  desk,  and,  taking  from  his  pocket 
a small  parcel  of  black  crape,  applied 
himself  to  folding  and  pinning  the  same 
upon  it,  after  the  manner  of  a hatband. 
Having  completed  the  construction  of 
this  appendage,  he  surveyed  his  work 
with  great  complacency,  and  put  his 
hat  on  again  — very  much  over  one  eye 
to  increase  the  mournfulness  of  the 
effect.  These  arrangements  perfected 
to  his  entire  satisfaction,  he  thrust  his 
hands  into  his  pockets,  and  walked  up 
and  down  the  office  with  measured 
steps. 

“It  has  always  been  the  same  with 
me,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  “always. 
’T  was  ever  thus,  from  childhood’s  hour 
I ’ve  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay,  I 
never  loved  a tree  or  flower  but ’t  was 
the  first  to  fade  away  ; I never  nursed 
a dear  Gazelle,  to  glad  me  with  its 
soft  black  eye,  but  when  it  came  to 
know  me  well,  and  love  me,  it  was  sure 
to  marry  a market-gardener.” 

Overpowered  by  these  reflections, 
Mr.  Swiveller  stopped  short  at  the 
clients’  chair,  and  flung  himself  into 
its  open  arms. 

“And this,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  with 
a kind  of  bantering  composure,  “is  life, 

I believe.  O,  certainly.  Why  not? 
I ’m  quite  satisfied.  I shall  wear,” 
added  Richard,  taking  off  his  hat  again 
and  looking  hard  at  it,  as  if  he  were 
only  deterred  by  pecuniary  considera- 
tions from  spurning  it  with  his  foot,  — 
“ I shall  \fbar  this  emblem  of  woman’s 
perfidy,  in  remembrance  of  her  with 
whom  I shall  never  again  thread  the 
windings  of  the  mazy  ; whom  I shall 
never  more  pledge  in  the  rosy  ; who, 
during  the  short  remainder  of  my  ex- 
istence, will  murder  the  balmy.  Ha, 
ha,  ha ! ” 

It  may  be  necessary  to  observe,  lest 
there  should  appear  any  incongruity  in 
the  close  of  this  soliloquy,  that  Mr. 
Swiveller  did  not  wind  up  with  a cheer- 
ful, hilarious  laugh,  which  would  have 


MR.  CHUCKSTER. 


TIElttMW 
Of  fof 

DHWEBSIff  0?  'EE®8 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


241 


been  undoubtedly  at  variance  with  his 
solemn  reflections,  but  that,  being  in 
a theatrical  mood,  he  merely  achieved 
that  performance  which  is  designated 
in  melodramas  “ laughing  like  a fiend,’1 
— for  it  seems  that  your  fiends  always 
laugh  in  syllables,  and  always  in  three 
syllables,  never  more  nor  less,  which 
is  a remarkable  property  in  such  gen- 
try, and  one  worthy  of  remembrance. 

The  baleful  sounds  had  hardly  died 
away,  and  Mr.  Swiveller  was  still  sit- 
ting in  a very  grim  state  in  the  clients’ 
chair,  when  there  came  a ring  — or, 
if  we  may  adapt  the  sound  to  his  then 
humor,  a knell  — at  the  office  bell. 
Opening  the  door  with  all  speed,  he 
beheld  the  expressive  countenance  of 
Mr.  Chuckster,  between  whom  and 
himself  a fraternal  greeting  ensued. 

“ You  ’re  devilish  early  at  this  pestif- 
erous old  slaughter-house,”  said  that 
gentleman,  poising  himself  on  one  leg, 
and  shaking  the  other  in  an  easy  man- 
ner. 

“ Rather,”  returned  Dick. 

“ Rather  ! ” retorted  Mr.  Chuckster, 
with  that  air  of  graceful  trifling  which 
so  well  became  him.  “ I should  think 
so.  Why,  my  good  feller,  do  you  know 
what  o’clock  it  is,  — half  past  nine  a.  m. 
in  the  morning  ? ” 

“Won’t  you  come  in?”  said  Dick. 
“ All  alone.  Swiveller  solus.  ‘ ’T  is 
now  the  witching  — ’ ” 

“ ‘ Hour  of  night  ! ’ ” 

“‘When  churchyards  yawn,’” 

“ * And  graves  give  up  their  dead.’  ” 
At  the  end  of  this  quotation  in  dia- 
logue, each  gentleman  struck  an  atti- 
tude, and,  immediately  subsiding  into 
prose,  walked  into  the  office.  Such 
morsels  of  enthusiasm  were  common 
among  the  Glorious  Apollos,  and  were 
indeed  the  links  that  bound  them  to- 
gether, and  raised  them  above  the  cold, 
dull  earth. 

“ Well,  and  how  are  you,  my  buck?” 
said  Mr.  Chuckster,  taking  a stool. 
“ I was  forced  to  come  into  the  city 
upon  some  little  private  matters  of  my 
own,  and  couldn’t  pass  the  corner  of 
the  street  without  looking  in  : but  upon 
my  soul,  I did  n’t  expect  to  find  you. 
It  is  so  everlastingly  early.” 

Mr.  Swiveller  expressed  his  acknowl- 
16 


edgments  ; and  it  appearing  on  further 
conversation  that  he  was  in  good  health, 
and  that  Mr.  Chuckster  was  in  the  like 
enviable  condition,  both  gentlemen,  in 
compliance  with  a solemn  custom  of  the 
ancient  Brotherhood  to  which  they  be- 
longed, joined  in  a fragment  of  the  pop- 
ular duet  of  “ All ’s  Well,”  with  a long 
shake  at  the  end. 

“ And  what ’s  the  news  ? ” said  Rich- 
ard. 

“ The  town ’s  as  flat,  my  dear  feller,” 
replied  Mr.  Chuckster,  “ as  the  surface 
of  a Dutch  oven.  There ’s  no  news. 
By  the  by,  that  lodger  of  yours  is  a most 
extraordinary  person.  He  quite  eludes 
the  most  vigorous  comprehension,  you 
know.  Never  was  such  a feller  ! ” 

“ What  has  he  been  doing  now?  ” 
said  Dick. 

“ By  Jove,  sir,”  returned  Mr.  Chuck- 
ster, taking  out  an  oblong  snuffbox,  the 
lid  whereof  was  ornamented  with  a fox’s 
head  curiously  carved  in  brass,  “ that 
man  is  an  unfathomable.  Sir,  that  man 
has  made  friends  with  our  articled 
clerk.  There ’s  no  harm  in  him,  but  he 
is  so  amazingly  slow  and  soft.  Now,  if 
he  wanted  a friend,  why  couldn’t  he 
have  one  that  knew  a thing  or  two,  and 
could  do  him  some  good  by  his  man- 
ners and  conversation.  I have  my 
faults,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Chuckster  — 

“ No,  no,”  interposed  Mr.  Swiveller. 

“ O yes,  I have,  I have  my  faults,  no 
man  knows  his  faults  better  than  I 
know  mine.  But,”  said  Mr.  Chuckster, 
“ I ’m  not  meek.  My  worst  enemies  — 
every  man  has  his  enemies,  sir,  and  I 
have  mine  — never  accused  me  of  be- 
ing meek.  And  I tell  you  what,  sir,  if 
I had  n’t  more  of  these  qualities  that 
commonly  endear  man  to  man  than 
our  articled  clerk  has,  I ’d  steal  athesh- 
ire  cheese,  tie  it  round  my  neck,  and 
drown  myself.  I ’d  die  degraded,  as  I 
had  lived.  I would,  upon  my  honor.” 

Mr.  Chuckster  paused,  rapped  the 
fox’s  head  exactly  on  the  nose  with  the 
knuckle  of  the  forefinger,  took  a pinch 
of  snuff,  and  looked  steadily  at  Mr. 
Swiveller,  as  much  as  to  say  that  if  he 
thought  he  was  going  to  sneeze,  he 
would  find  himself  mistaken. 

“ Not  contented,  sir,”  said  Mr. 
Chuckster,  “ with  making  friends  with 


242 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


Abel,  he  has  cultivated  the  acquaint- 
ance of  his  father  and  mother.  Since 
he  came  home  from  that  wild-goose 
chase,  he  has  been  there,  — actually 
been  there.  He  patronizes  young 
Snobby  besides.  You’ll  find,  sir,  that 
he  ’ll  be  constantly  coming  backwards 
and  forwards  to  this  place  ; yet  I don’t 
suppose  that,  beyond  the  common  forms 
of  civility,  he  has  ever  exchanged  half  a 
dozen  words  with  me.  Now,  upon  my 
soul,  you  know,”  said  Mr.  Chuckster, 
shaking  his  head  gravely,  as  men  are 
wont  to  do  when  they  consider  things 
are  going  a little  too  far,  “ this  is  alto- 
gether such  a low-minded  affair,  that  if 
I did  n’t  feel  for  the  governor,  and  know 
that  he  could  never  get  on  without  me, 
1 should  be  obliged  to  cut  the  connec- 
tion. I should  have  no  alternative.” 

Mr.  Swiveller,  who  sat  on  another 
stool  opposite  to  his  friend,  stirred  the 
fire  in  an  excess  of  sympathy,  but  said 
nothing. 

“ As  to  young  Snob,  sir,”  pursued 
Mr.  Chuckster,  with  a prophetic  look, 
“ you  ’ll  find  he  ’ll  turn  out  bad.  In 
our  profession  we  know  something  of 
human  nature,  and  take  my  word  for  it, 
that  the  feller  that  came  back  to  work 
out  that  shilling  will  show  himself  one 
of  these  days  in  his  true  colors.  He ’s 
a low  thief,  sir.  He  must  be.” 

Mr.  Chuckster,  being  roused,  would 
probably  have  pursued  this  subject  fur- 
ther, and  in  more  emphatic  language, 
but  for  a tap  at  the  door,  which,  seeming 
to  announce  the  arrival  of  somebody  on 
business,  caused  him  to  assume  a great- 
er appearance  of  meekness  than  was 
perhaps  quite  consistent  with  his  late 
declaration.  Mr.  Swiveller,  hearing  the 
same  sound,  caused  his  stool  to  re- 
volve fapidly  on  one  leg  until  it  brought 
him  to  his  desk,  into  which,  having  for- 
gotten in  the  sudden  flurry  of  his  spirits 
to  part  with  the  poker,  he  thrust  it  as 
he  cried,  “ Come  in  ! ” 

Who  should  present  himself  but  that 
very  Kit  who  had  been  the  theme  of 
Mr.  Chuckster’s  wrath  ! Never  did 
man  pluck  up  his  courage  so  quickly,  or 
look  so  fierce,  as  Mr.  Chuckster  when 
he  found  it  was  he.  Mr.  Swiveller 
stared  at  him  for  a moment,  and  then 
leaping  from  his  stool,  and  drawing  out 


the  poker  from  its  place  of  concealment, 
performed  the  broadsword  exercise  with 
all  the  cuts  and  guards  complete,  in  a 
species  of  frenzy. 

“Is  the  gentleman  at  home?”  said 
Kit,  rather  astonished  by  this  uncom- 
mon reception. 

Before  Mr.  Swiveller  could  make  any 
reply,  Mr.  Chuckster  took  occasion  to 
enter  his  indignant  protest  against  this 
form  of  inquiry  ; which  he  held  to  be 
of  a disrespectful  and  snobbish  ten- 
dency, inasmuch  as  the  inquirer,  seeing 
two  gentlemen  then  and  there  present, 
should  have  spoken  of  the  other  gentle- 
man ; or  rather  (for  it  was  not  impossi- 
ble that  the  object  of  his  search  might 
be  of  inferior  quality)  should  have  men- 
tioned his  name,  leaving  it  to  his  hear- 
ers to  determine  his  degree  as  they 
thought  proper.  Mr.  Chuckster  like- 
wise remarked,  that  he  had  some  rea- 
son to  believe  this  form  of  address  was 
personal  to  himself,  and  that  he  was 
not  a man  to  be  trifled  with,  — as  cer- 
tain snobs  (whom  he  did  not  more  par- 
ticularly mention  or  describe)  might 
find  to  their  cost. 

“ I mean  the  gentleman  up  stairs,” 
said  Kit,  turning  to  Richard  Swiveller. 
“ Is  he  at  home?  ” 

“ Why?  ” rejoined  Dick. 

“ Because,  if  he  is,  I have  a letter  for 
him.” 

“ From  whom  ?”  said  Dick. 

“ From  Mr.  Garland.” 

“ Oh  ! ” said  Dick,  with  extreme 
politeness.  “Then  you  may  hand  it 
over,  sir.  And  if  you  ’re  to  wait  for  an 
answer,  sir,  you  may  wait  in  the  pas- 
sage, sir,  which  is  an  airy  and  well-ven- 
tilated apartment,  sir.” 

“Thank  you,”  returned  Kit.  “But 
I am  to  give  it  to  himself,  if  you 
please,” 

The  excessive  audacity  of  this  retort 
so  overpowered  Mr.  Chuckster,  and  so 
moved  his  tender  regard  for  his  friend’s 
honor,  that  he  declared,  if  he  were  not 
restrained  by  official  considerations,  he 
must  certainly  have  annihilated  Kit 
upon  the  spot  : a resentment  of  the 
affront  which  he  did  consider,  under 
the  extraordinary  circumstances  of  ag- 
gravation attending  it,  could  not  but 
have  met  with  the  proper  sanction  and 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


243 


approval  of  a jury  of  Englishmen,  who, 
he  had  no  doubt,  would  have  returned 
a verdict  of  Justifiable  Homicide, 
coupled  with  a high  testimony  to  the 
morals  and  character  of  the  Avenger. 
Mr.  Swiveller,  without  being  quite  so 
hot  upon  the  matter,  was  rather  shamed 
by  his  friend’s  excitement,  and  not  a 
little  puzzled  how  to  act  (Kit  being 
quite  cool  and  good  - humored),  when 
the  single  gentleman  was  heard  to  call 
violently  down  the  stairs. 

“ Did  n’t  I see  somebody  for  me, 
come  in?”  cried  the  lodger. 

“Yes,  sir,”  replied  Dick.  “ Certain- 
ly, sir.” 

“Then  where  is  he  ! ” roared  the  sin- 
gle gentleman. 

“ He ’s  here,  sir,”  rejoined  Mr. 
Swiveller.  “ Now,  young  man,  don’t 
you  hear  you  ’re  to  go  up  stairs  ? Are 
you  deaf? ” 

_ Kit  did  not  appear  to  think  it  worth 
his  while  to  enter  into  any  altercation, 
but  hurried  off  and  left  the  Glorious 
Apollos  gazing  at  each  other  in  si- 
lence. 

“Did  n’t  I tell  you  so?”  said  Mr. 
Chuckster.  “What  do  you  think  of 
that?  ” 

Mr.  Swiveller  being  in  the  main  a 
good-natured  fellow,  and  not  perceiving 
in  the  conduct  of  Kit  any  villany  of 
enormous  magnitude,  scarcely  knew 
what  answer  to  return.  He  was  re- 
lieved from  his  perplexity,  however,  by 
the  entrance  of  Mr.  Sampson  and  his 
sister  Sally,  at  sight  of  whom  Mr. 
Chuckster  precipitately  retired. 

Mr.  Brass  and  his  lovely  companion 
appeared  to  have  been  holding  a con- 
sultation over  their  temperate  break- 
fast, upon  some  matter  of  great  inter- 
est and  importance.  On  the  occasion 
of  such  conferences,  they  generally  ap- 
peared in  the  office  some  half  an  hour 
after  their  usual  time,  and  in  a very 
smiling  state,  as  though  their  late  plots 
and  designs  had  tranquillized  their  minds 
and  shed  a light  upon  their  toilsome 
way.  In  the  present  instance,  they 
seemed  particularly  gay ; Miss  Sally’s 
aspect  being  of  a most  oily  kind,  and 
Mr.  Brass  rubbing  his  hands  in  an  ex- 
ceedingly jocose  and  light-hearted  man- 
ner. 


“ Well,  Mr.  Richard,”  said  Brass. 
“ How  are  we  this  morning  ? Are  we 
pretty  fresh  and  cheerful,  sir,  — eh,  Mr. 
Richard?  ” 

“ Pretty  well,  sir,”  replied  Dick. 
“That’s  well,”  said  Brass.  “Ha, 
ha  ! We  should  be  as  gay  as  larks,  Mr. 
Richard,  — why  not?  It  ’s  a pleasant 
world  we  live  in,  sir,  a very  pleasant 
world.  There  are  bad  people  in  it,  Mr. 
Richard  ; but  if  there  were  no  bad  peo- 
ple, there  would  be  no  good  lawyers. 
Ha,  ha  ! Any  letters  by  the  post  this 
morning,  Mr.  Richard?” 

Mr.  Swiveller  answered  in  the  nega- 
tive. 

“ Ha  ! ” said  Brass,  “no  matter.  If 
there ’s  little  business  to-day,  there  ’ll 
be  more  to-morrow.  A contented 
spirit,  Mr.  Richard,  is  the  sweetness  of 
existence.  Anybody  been  here,  sir  ! ” 
“Only  my  friend,”  replied  Dick. 
“ ‘ May  we  ne’er  want  a — ’ ” 

“ ‘ Friend,’  ” Brass  chimed  in  quick- 
ly, “‘ora  bottle  to  give  him.’  Ha,  ha  ! 
That’s  the  way  the  song  runs,  is  n’t  it? 
A very  good  song,  Mr.  Richard,  very 
good.  I like  the  sentiment  of  it.  Ha, 
ha  ! Your  friend ’s  the  young  man 
from  Witherden’s  office  I think,  — yes. 
‘May  we  ne’er  want  a — ’ Nobody 
else  at  all  been,  Mr.  Richard?  ” 

“ Only  somebody  to  the  lodger,”  re- 
plied Mr.  Swiveller. 

“ O,  indeed  ! ” cried  Brass.  “ Some- 
body to  the  lodger,  eh  ? Ha,  ha  ! ‘ May 
we  ne’er  want  a friend,  or  a — ’ Some- 
body to  the  lodger,  eh,  Mr.  Richard?  ” 

“ Yes,”  said  Dick,  a little  disconcert- 
ed by  the  excessive  buoyancy  of  spirits 
which  his  employer  displayed.  “With 
him  now.” 

“With  him  now  ! ” cried  Brass.  “ Ha, 
ha  ! There  let  ’em  be,  merry  and  free, 
toor  rul  lol  le.  Eh,  Mr.  Richard?  Ha, 
ha  ! ” 

“ O,  certainly,”  replied  Dick. 

“And  who,”  said  Brass,  shuffling 
among  his  papers,  — “ who  is  the  lodg- 
er’s visitor?  Not  a lady  visitor,  I hope, 
eh,  Mr.  Richard?  The  morals  of  the 
Marks,  you  know,  sir  — ‘ When  lovely 
woman  stoops  to  folly  ’ — and  all  that, 
— eh,  Mr.  Richard?” 

“Another  young  man,  who  belongs  to 
Witherden’s  too,  or  half  belongs  there,” 


244 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


returned  Richard.  “ Kit,  they  call 
him.” 

“Kit,  eh!”  said  Brass.  “Strange 
name, — name  of  a dancing-master’s 
fiddle,  eh,  Mr.  Richard?  Ha,  ha  ! 
Kit ’s  there,  is  he  ? Oh!” 

Dick  looked  at  Miss  Sally,  wondering 
that  she  didn’t  check  this  uncommon 
exuberance  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Samp- 
son ; but  as  she  made  no  attempt  to  do 
so,  and  rather  appeared  to  exhibit  a 
tacit  acquiescence  in  it,  he  concluded 
that  they  had  just  been  cheating  some- 
body, and  receiving  the  bill. 

“Will  you  have  the  goodness,  Mr. 
Richard,”  said  Brass,  taking  a letter 
from  his  desk,  “just  to  step  over  to 
Peckham  Rye  with  that  ? There ’s  no 
answer,  but  it ’s  rather  particular  and 
shouid  go  by  hand.  Charge  the  office 
with  your  coach-hire  back,  you  know. 
Don’t  spare  the  office.  Get  as  much  out 
©f  it  as  you  can  — clerk’s  motto  — eh, 
Mr.  Richard  ? Ha,  ha  ! ” 

Mr.  Swiveller  solemnly  doffed  the 
aquatic  jacket,  put  on  his  coat,  took 
down  his  hat  from  its  peg,  pocketed 
the  letter,  and  departed.  As  soon  as  he 
was  gone,  up  rose  Miss  Sally  Brass, 
and,  smiling  sweetly  at  her  brother  (who 
nodded  and  smote  his  nose  in  return), 
withdrew  also. 

Sampson  Brass  was  no  sooner  left 
alone,  than  he  set  the  office  door  wide 
open,  and  establishing  himself  at  his 
desk  directly  opposite,  so  that  he  could 
not  fail  to  see  anybody  who  came 
down  stairs  and  passed  out  at  the  street 
door,  began  to  write  with  extreme 
cheerfulness  and  assiduity ; humming 
as  he  did  so,  in  a voice  that  was  any- 
thing but  musical,  certain  vocal  snatches 
which  appeared  to  have  reference  to  the 
union  between  Church  and  State,  inas- 
much as  they  were  compounded  of  the 
Evening  Hymn  and  God  save  the 
King. 

Thus,  the  attorney  of  Bevis  Marks 
sat,  and  wrote,  and  hummed,  for  a long 
time,  except  when  he  stopped  to  listen 
with  a very  cunning  face,  and,  hearing 
nothing,  went  on  humming  louder,  and 
writing  slower  than  ever.  At  length,  in 
one  of  these  pauses,  he  heard  his  lodg- 
er’s door  opened  and  shut,  and  foot- 
steps coming  down  the  stairs.  Then 


Mr.  Brass  left  off  writing  entirely,  and, 
with  his  pen  in  his  hand,  hummed  his 
very  loudest,  shaking  his  head  mean- 
while from  side  to  side,  like  a man 
whose  whole  soul  was  in  the  music,  and 
smiling  in  a manner  quite  seraphic. 

It  was  towards  this  moving  spec- 
tacle that  the  staircase  and  the  sweet 
sounds  guided  Kit ; on  whose  arrival 
before  his  door,  Mr.  Brass  stopped  his 
singing,  but  not  his  smiling,  and  nod- 
ded affably,  at  the  same  time  beck- 
oning to  him  with  his  pen. 

“ Kit,”  said  Mr.  Brass,  in  the  pleas- 
antest way  imaginable,  “how  do  you 
do  ? ” 

Kit,  being  rather  shy  of  his  friend, 
made  a suitable  reply,  and  had  his  hand 
upon  the  lock  of  the  street  door  when 
Mr.  Brass  called  him  softly  back. 

“ You  are  not  to  go,  if  you  please, 
Kit,”  said  the  attorney  in  a mysterious 
and  yet  business-like  way.  “You  are 
to  step  in  here,  if  you  please.  Dear  me, 
dear  me  ! When  I look  at  you,”  said 
the  lawyer,  quitting  his  stool,  and 
standing  before  the  fire  with  his  back 
towards  it,  “ I am  reminded  of  the 
sweetest  little  face  that  ever  my  eyes 
beheld.  I remember  your  coming  there, 
twice  or  thrice,  when  we  were  in  pos- 
session. Ah,  Kit,  my  dear  fellow,  gen- 
tlemen in  my  profession  have  such 
painful  duties  to  perform  sometimes, 
that  you  needn’t  envy  us, —you  need 
n’t,  indeed  ! ” 

“ I don’t,  sir,”  said  Kit,  “though  it 
is  n’t  for  the  like  of  me  to  judge.” 

“ Our  only  consolation,  Kit,”  pur- 
sued the  lawyer,  looking  at  him  in  a 
sort  of  pensive  abstraction,  “ is,  that  al- 
though we  cannot  turn  away  the  wind, 
we  can  soften  it ; we  can  temper  it,  if  I 
may  say  so,  to  the  shorn  lambs.” 

“ Shorn,  indeed  ! ” thought  Kit. 
“Pretty  close!”  But  he  didn’t  say 
so. 

“On  that  occasion,  Kit,”  said  Mr. 
Brass,  — “ on  that  occasion  that  I have 
just  alluded  to,  I had  a hard  battle  with 
Mr.  Quilp  (for  Mr.  Quilp  is  a very  hard 
man)  to  obtain  them  the  indulgence 
they  had.  It  might  have  cost  me  a 
client.  But  suffering  virtue  inspired 
me,  and  I prevailed.” 

“ He ’s  not  so  bad,  after  all,”  thought 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


245 


honest  Kit,  as  the  attorney  pursed  up 
his  lips  and  looked  like  a man  who 
was  struggling  with  his  better  feel- 
ings. 

“ I respect  you,  Kit,”  said  Brass,  with 
emotion.  “ I saw  enough  of  your  con- 
duct at  that  time  to  respect  you,  though 
your  station  is  humble,  and  your  for- 
tune lowly.  It  is  n’t  the  waistcoat  that 
I look  at.  It  is  the  heart.  The  checks 
in  the  waistcoat  are  but  the  wires  of  the 
cage.  But  the  heart  is  the  bird.  Ah  ! 
How  many  sich  birds  are  perpetual- 
ly moulting,  and  putting  their  beaks 
through  the  wires  to  peck  at  all  man- 
kind ! ” 

This  poetic  figure,  which  Kit  took  to 
be  in  special  allusion  to  his  own  checked 
waistcoat,  quite  overcame  him.  Mr. 
Brass’s  voice  and  manner  added  not  a 
little  to  its  effect,  for  he  discoursed  with 
all  the  mild  austerity  of  a hermit,  and 
wanted  but  a cord  round  the  waist  of 
his  rusty  surtout,  and  a skull  on  the 
chimney-piece,  to  be  completely  set  up 
in  that  line  of  business. 

“ Well,  well,”  said  Sampson,  smiling 
as  good  men  smile  when  they  compas- 
sionate their  own  weakness  or  that  of 
their  fellow  - creatures,  “ this  is  wide 
of  the  bull’s-eye.  You  ’re  to  take  that, 
if  you  please.”  As  he  spoke,  he  point- 
ed to  a couple  of  half-crowns  on  the 
desk. 

Kit  looked  at  the  coins,  and  then  at 
Sampson,  and  hesitated. 

“For  yourself,”  said  Brass. 

“ From — ” 

“No  matter  about  the  person  they 
came  from,”  replied  the  lawyer.  “ Say 
me,  if  you  like.  We  have  eccentric 
friends,  overhead,  Kit,  and  we  must  n’t 
ask  questions  or  talk  too  much,  — you 
understand?  You  ’re  to  take  them, 
that ’s  all  ; and  between  you  and  me,  I 
don’t  think  they  ’ll  be  the  last  you  ’ll 
have  to  take  from  the  same  place.  I 
hope  not.  Good  by,  Kit.  Good  by  ! ” 

With  many  thanks,  and  many  more 
self-reproaches  for  having  on  such  slight 
grounds  suspected  one  who  in  their 
very  first  conversation  turned  out  such 
a different  man  from  what  he  had  sup- 
posed, Kit  took  the  money  and  made 
the  best  of  his  way  home.  Mr.  Brass 
remained  airing  himself  at  the  fire,  and 


resumed  his  vocal  exercise  and  his  se- 
raphic smile  simultaneously. 

“May  I come  in?”  said  Miss  Sally, 
peeping. 

“ O yes,  you  may  come  in,”  returned 
her  brother. 

“Ahem?”  coughed  Miss  Brass,  in- 
terrogatively. 

“ Why,  yes,”  returned  Sampson,  “ I 
should  say  as  good  as  done.” 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

Mr.  Chuckster’s  indignant  appre- 
hensions were  not  without  foundation. 
Certainly  the  friendship  between  the 
single  gentleman  and  Mr.  Garland  was 
not  suffered  to  cool,  but  had  a rapid 
growth  and  flourished  exceedingly. 
They  were  soon  in  habits  of  constant 
intercourse  and  communication ; and 
the  single  gentleman  laboring  at  this 
time  under  a slight  attack  of  illness  — 
the  consequence  most  probably  of  his 
late  excited  feelings  and  subsequent 
disappointment  — furnished  a reason  for 
their  holding  yet  more  frequent  corre- 
spondence ; so  that  some  one  of  the 
inmates  of  Abel  Cottage,  Finchley, 
came  backwards  and  forwards  between 
that  place  and  Bevis  Marks,  almost 
every  day. 

As  the  pony  had  now  thrown  off  all  dis- 
guise, and  without  any  mincing  of  the 
matter  or  beating  about  the  bush,  sturdi- 
ly refused  to  be  driven  by  anybody  but 
Kit,  it  generally  happened  that  whether 
old  Mr.  Garland  came,  or  Mr.  Abel,  Kit 
was  of  the  party.  Of  all  messages  and 
inquiries,  Kit  was,  in  right  of  his  posi- 
tion, the  bearer.  Thus  it  came  about 
that,  while  the  single  gentleman  re- 
mained indisposed,  Kit  turned  into  Be- 
vis Marks  every  morning  with  nearly  as 
much  regularity  as  the  general  postman. 

Mr.  Sampson  Brass,  who  no  doubt 
had  his  reasons  for  looking  sharply 
about  him,  soon  learnt  to  distinguish 
the  pony’s  trot  and  the  clatter  of  the 
little  chaise  at  the  corner  of  the  street. 
Whenever  this  sound  reached  his  ears, 
he  would  immediately  lay  down  his 
pen  and  fall  to  rubbing  his  hands  and 
exhibiting  the  greatest  glee. 


246 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


“ Ha,  ha  ! ” he  would  cry.  “ Here ’s 
the  pony  again  ! Most  remarkable  pony  ; 
extremely  docile,  eh,  Mr.  Richard,  eh, 
sir?  ” 

Dick  would  return  some  matter-of- 
course  reply,  and  Mr.  Brass,  standing 
on  the  bottom  rail  of  his  stool,  so  as 
to  get  a view  of  the  street  over  the 
top  of  the  window-blind,  would  take 
an  observation  of  the  visitors. 

“ The  old  gentleman  again  ! ” he 
would  exclaim.  “A  very  prepossessing 
old  gentleman,  Mr.  Richard — charm- 
ing countenance,  sir  — extremely  calm 
• — benevolence  in  every  feature,  sir. 
He  quite  realizes  my  idea  of  King 
Lear,  as  he  appeared  when  in  posses- 
sion of  his  kingdom,  Mr.  Richard  — 
the  same  good-humor,  the  same  white 
hair  and  partial  baldness,  the  same  lia- 
bility to  be  imposed  upon.  Ah ! A 
sweet  subject  for  contemplation,  sir, 
very  sweet ! ” 

Then,  Mr.  Garland  having  alighted 
and  gone  up  stairs,  Sampson  would  nod 
and  smile  to  Kit  from  the  window,  and 
presently  walk  out  into  the  street  to 
greet  him,  when  some  such  conversa- 
tion as  the  following  would  ensue. 

“ Admirably  groomed,  Kit  ” — Mr. 
Brass  is  patting  the  pony — “ does  you 
great  credit  — amazingly  sleek  and 
bright  to  be  sure.  He  literally  looks 
as  if  he  had  been  varnished  all  over.” 

Kit  touches  his  hat,  smiles,  pats  the 
pony  himself,  and  expresses  his  convic- 
tion, “that  Mr.  Brass  will  not  find  many 
like  him.” 

“ A beautiful  animal,  indeed  ! ” cries 
Brass.  “ Sagacious,  too  ? ” 

“ Bless  you  ! ” replies  Kit,  “he knows 
what  you  say  to  him  as  well  as  a Chris- 
tian does.” 

“ Does  he,  indeed  ! ” cries  Brass,  who 
has  heard  the  same  thing  in  the  same 
place  from  the  same  person  in  the 
same  words  a dozen  times,  but  is  para- 
lyzed with  astonishment,  notwithstand- 
ing. “ Dear  me  ! ” 

“ I little  thought,  the  first  time  I saw 
him,  sir,”  says  Kit,  pleased  with  the  at- 
torney’s strong  interest  in  his  favorite, 
“ that  I should  come  to  be  as  inti- 
mate with  him  as  I am  now.” 

“ Ah  ! ” rejoins  Mr.  Brass,  brimful 
of  moral  precepts  and  love  of  virtue. 


“ A charming  subject  of  reflection  for 
you,  very  charming.  A subject  of  prop- 
er pride  and  congratulation,  Christopher. 
Honesty  is  the  best  policy.  I always 
find  it  so  myself.  I lost  forty-seven 
pound  ten  by  being  honest  this  morn- 
ing. But  it ’s  all  gain,  it ’s  gain  ! ” 

Mr.  Brass  slyly  tickles  his  nose  with 
his  pen,  and  looks  at  Kit  with  the  wa- 
ter standing  in  his  eyes.  Kit  thinks 
that  if  ever  there  was  a good  man 
who  belied  his  appearance,  that  man  is 
Sampson  Brass. 

“ A man,”  says  Sampson,  “ who  loses 
forty-seven  pound  ten  in  one  morning,  by 
his  honesty,  is  a man  to  be  envied.  If 
it  had  been  eighty  pound,  the  luxuri- 
ousness of  feeling  would  have  been 
increased.  Every  pound  lost  would 
have  been  a hundred-weight  of  happi- 
ness gained.  The  still  small  voice, 
Christopher,”  cries  Brass,  smiling  and 
tapping  himself  on  the  bosom,  “ is  a 
singing  comic  songs  within  me,  and 
all  is  happiness  and  joy  ! ” 

Kit  is  so  improved  by  the  conversa- 
tion, and  finds  it  go  so  completely  home 
to  his  feelings,  that  he  is  considering 
what  he  shall  say,  when  Mr.  Garland 
appears.  The  old  gentleman  is  helped 
into  the  chaise  with  great  obsequious- 
ness by  Mr.  Sampson  Brass  ; and  the 
pony,  after  shaking  his  head  several 
times,  and  standing  for  three  or  four 
minutes  with  all  his  four  legs  planted 
firmly  on  the  ground,  as  if  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  never  to  stir  from 
that  spot,  but  there  to  live  and  die,  sud- 
denly darts  off,  without  the  smallest 
notice,  at  the  rate  of  twelve  English 
miles  an  hour.  Then  Mr.  Brass  and 
his  sister  (who  has  joined  him  at  the 
door)  exchange  an  odd  kind  of  smile,  — 
not  at  all  a pleasant  one  in  its  expres- 
sion, — and  return  to  the  society  of  Mr. 
Richard  Swiveller,  who,  during  their 
absence,  has  been  regaling  himself  with 
various  feats  of  pantomime,  and  is  dis- 
covered at  his  desk,  in  a very  flushed 
and  heated  condition,  violently  scratch- 
ing out  nothing  with  half  a penknife. 

Whenever  Kit  came  alone,  and  with- 
out the  chaise,  it  always  happened  that 
Sampson  Brass  was  reminded  of  some 
mission,  calling  Mr.  Swiveller,  if  not  to 
Peckham  Rye  again,  at  all  events  to 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


247 


some  pretty  distant  place  from  which  he 
could  not  be  expected  to  return  for  two 
or  three  hours,  or  in  all  probability  a 
much  longer  period,  as  that  gentleman 
was  not,  to  say  the  truth,  renowned  for 
using  great  expedition  on  such  occa- 
sions, but  rather  for  protracting  and 
spinning  out  the  time  to  the  very  ut- 
most limit  of  possibility.  Mr.  Swiveller 
out  of  sight,  Miss  Sally  immediately 
withdrew.  Mr.  Brass  would  then  set 
the  office  door  wide  open,  hum  his  old 
tune  with  great  gayety  of  heart,  and 
smile  seraphically  as  before.  Kit,  com- 
ing down  stairs,  would  be  called«in  ; en- 
tertained with  some  moral  and  agreea- 
ble conversation  ; perhaps  entreated  to 
mind  the  office  for  an  instant  while  Mr. 
Brass  stepped  over  the  way  ; and  after- 
wards presented  with  one  or  two  half- 
crowns  as  the  case  might  be.  This  oc- 
curred so  often,  that  Kit,  nothing  doubt- 
ing but  that  they  came  from  the  single 
gentleman  who  had  already  rewarded 
his  mother  with  great  liberality,  could 
not  enough  admire  his  generosity ; and 
bought  so  many  cheap  presents  for  her, 
and  for  little  Jacob,  and  for  the  baby, 
and  for  Barbara  to  boot,  that  one  or 
other  of  them  was  having  some  new 
trifle  every  day  of  their  lives. 

While  these  acts  and  deeds  were  in 
progress  in  and  out  of  the  office  of 
Sampson  Brass,  Richard  Swiveller,  be- 
ing often  left  alone  therein,  began  to 
find  the  time  hang  heavy  on  his  hands. 
For  the  better  preservation  of  his  cheer- 
fulness, therefore,  and  to  prevent  his 
faculties  from  rusting,  he  provided  him- 
self with  a cribbage-board  and  pack  of 
cards,  and  accustomed  himself  to  play 
at  cribbage  with  a dummy,  for  twenty, 
thirty,  or  sometimes  even  fifty  thousand 
pounds  a side,  besides  many  hazardous 
bets  to  a considerable  amount. 

As  these  games  were  very  silently 
conducted,  notwithstanding  the  magni- 
tude of  the  interests  involved,  Mr. 
Swiveller  began  to  think  that  on  those 
evenings  when  Mr.  and  Miss  Brass 
were  out  (and  they  often  went  out  now) 
he  heard  a kind  of  snorting  or  hard-  ( 
breathing  sound  in  the  direction  of  the  ( 
door,  which,  it  occurred  to  him  after  some  | 
reflection,  must  proceed  from  the  ■vral)  1 
servant,  who  always  had  a froci  j 


damp  living.  Looking  intently  that 
way  one  night,  he  plainly  distinguished 
an  eye  gleaming  and  glistening  at  the 
keyhole  ; and  having  now  no  doubt  that 
his  suspicions  were  correct,  he  stole 
softly  to  the  door,  and  pounced  upon 
her  before  she  was  aware  of  his  ap- 
proach. 

“ O,  I did  n’t  mean  any  harm,  in- 
deed; upon  my  word,  I did  n’t,”  cried 
the  small  servant,  struggling  like  a 
much  larger  one.  “ It ’s  so  very  dull 
down  stairs.  Please  don’t  you  tell 
upon  me,  please  don’t.” 

“ Tell  upon  you  ! ” said  Dick.  “ Do 
you  mean  to  say  you  were  looking 
through  the  keyhole  for  company?” 
“Yes,  upon  my  word,  I was,”  replied 
the  small  servant. 

“ How  long  have  you  been  cooling 
your  eye  there  ? ” said  Dick. 

“ O,  ever  since  you  first  began  to  play 
them  cards,  and  long  before.” 

Vague  recollections  of  several  fantas- 
tic exercises  with  which  he  had  re- 
freshed himself  after  the  fatigues  of 
business,  and  to  all  of  which,  no  doubt, 
the  small  servant  was  a party,  rather 
disconcerted  Mr.  Swiveller ; but  he 
was  not  verv  sensitive  on  such  points, 
and  recovered  himself  speedily. 

“ Well,  come  in,”  he  said,  after  a 
little  consideration.  “ Here,  sit  down 
and  I ’ll  teach  you  how  to  play.” 

“ O,  I durst  n’t  do  it,”  rejoined  the 
small  servant.  “Miss  Sally  ’ud  kill 
me,  if  she  know’d  I come  up  here.” 

“ Have  you  got  a fire  down  stairs?  ” 
said  Dick. 

“ A very  little  one,”  replied  the  small 
servant. 

“Miss  Sally  couldn’t  kill  me  if  she 
know’d  I went  down  there,  so  I ’ll 
Come,”  said  Richard,  putting  the  cards 
into  his  pocket.  “Why,  how  thin  you 
are!  What  do  you  mean  by  it?” 

“ It  ain’t  my  fault.” 

“Could  you  eat  any  bread  and. 
meat?”  said  Dick,  taking  down  his 
iliat.  “Yes?  Ah!  I thought  so.  Did 
you  ever  taste  beer?  ” 

“ I had  a sip  of  it  once,”  said  the 
small  servant. 

“ Here ’s  a state  of  things  ! ” cried 
Mr.  Swiveller,  raising  his  eyes  to  the 
ceiling.  “She  never  tasted  it,  — it 


248 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


can’t  be  tasted  in  a sip  ! Why,  how 
old  are  you  ? ” 

“ I don’t  know.” 

Mr.  Swiveller  opened  his  eyes  very 
wide,  and  appeared  thoughtful  for  a 
moment ; then,  bidding  the  child  mind 
the  door  until  he  came  back,  vanished 
straightway. 

Presently  he  returned,  followed  by 
the  boy  from  the  public-house,  who 
bore  in  one  hand  a plate  of  bread  and 
beef,  and  in  the  other  a great  pot,  filled 
with  some  very  fragrant  compound, 
which  sent  forth  a grateful  steam,  and 
was  indeed  choice  purl,  made  after  a 
particular  recipe  which  Mr.  Swiveller 
had  imparted  to  the  landlord,  at  a peri- 
od when  he  was  deep  in  his  books  and 
desirous  to  conciliate  his  friendship. 
Relieving  the  boy  of  his  burden  at  the 
door,  and  charging  his  little  compan- 
ion to  fasten  it  to  prevent  surprise, 
Mr.  Swiveller  followed  her  into  the 
kitchen. 

“ There  ! ” said  Richard,  putting  the 
plate  before  her.  “ First  of  all,  clear 
that  off,  and  then  you  ’ll  see  what ’s 
next.” 

The  small  servant  needed  no  second 
bidding,  and  the  plate  was  soon  empty. 

“ Next,”  said  Dick,  handing  the 
purl,  “ take  a pull  at  that  ; but  mod- 
erate your  transports,  you  know,  for 
you’re  not  used  to  it.  Well,  is  it 
good?  ” 

“O,  isn’t  it?”  said  the  small  ser- 
vant. 

Mr.  Swiveller  appeared  gratified  be- 
yond all  expression  by  this  reply,  and 
took  a long  draught  himself,  stead- 
fastly regarding  his  companion  while  he 
did  so.  These  preliminaries  disposed 
of,  he  applied  himself  to  teaching  her 
the  game,  which  she  soon  learnt  toler- 
ably well,  being  both  sharp-witted  and 
cunning. 

“ Now,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  putting 
two  sixpences  into  a saucer,  and  trim- 
ming the  wretched  candle,  when  the 
cards  had  been  cut  and  dealt,  “ those 
are  the  stakes.  If  you  win,  you  get 
’em  all.  If  I win,  I get  ’em.  To  make 
it  seem  more  real  and  pleasant,  I shall 
call  you  the  Marchioness,  do  you 
hear?  ” 

The  small  servant  nodded. 


“ Then,  Marchioness,”  said  Mr. 
Swiveller,  “ fire  away  ! ” 

The  Marchioness,  holding  her  cards 
very  tight  in  both  hands,  considered 
which  to  play,  and  Mr.  Swiveller,  as- 
suming the  gay  and  fashionable  air 
which  such  society  required,  took 
another  pull  at  the  tankard,  and  wait- 
ed for  her  lead. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

Mr.  #Swiveller  and  his  partner 
played  several  rubbers  with  varying 
success,  until  the  loss  of  three  sixpences, 
the  gradual  sinking  of  the  purl,  and 
the  striking  of  ten  o’clock,  combined  to 
render  that  gentleman  mindful  of  the 
flight  of  Time,  and  the  expediency  of 
withdrawing  before  Mr.  Sampson  and 
Miss  Sally  Brass  returned. 

‘‘With  which  object  in  view,  Mar- 
chioness,” said  Mr.  Swiveller,  gravely, 
“ I shall  ask  your  ladyship’s  permission 
to  put  the  board  in  my  pocket,  and  to 
retire  from  the  presence  when  I have 
finished  this  tankard  ; merely  observing. 
Marchioness,  that  since  life  like  a river 
is  flowing,  I care  not  how  fast  it  rolls 
on,  ma’am,  on,  while  such  purl  on  the 
bank  still  is  growing,  and  such  eyes 
light  the  waves  as  they  run.  Marchion- 
ess, your  health.  You  will  excuse  my 
wearing  my  hat,  but  the  palace  is  damp, 
and  the  marble  floor  is  — if  I may  be 
allowed  the  expression — sloppy.” 

As  a precaution  against  this  latter 
inconvenience,  Mr.  Swiveller  had  been 
sitting  for  some  time  with  his  feet  on 
the  hob,  in  which  attitude  he  now  gave 
utterance  to  these  apologetic  observa- 
tions, and  slowly  sipped  the  last  choice 
drops  of  nectar. 

“The  Baron  Sampsono  Brasso  and 
his  fair  sister  are  (you  tell  me]  at  the 
play?”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  leaning  his 
left  arm  heavily  upon  the  table,  and 
raising  his  voice  and  his  right  leg  after 
the  manner  of  a theatrical  bandit. 

The  Marchioness  nodded. 

“ Ha  ! ” said  Mr.  Swiveller,  with  a 
portentous  frown.  “ ’T  is  well.  Mar- 
chioness ! — but  no  matter.  Some  wine 
there.  Ho ! ” He  illustrated  these 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  Or  ILLINOIS 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


249 


melodramatic  morsels,  by  handing  the 
tankard  to  himself  with  great  humility, 
receiving  it  haughtily,  drinking  from  it 
thirstily,  and  smacking  his  lips  fiercely. 

The  small  servant,  who  was  not  so 
well  acquainted  with  theatrical  conven- 
tionalities as  Mr.  Swiveller  (having  in- 
deed never  seen  a play,  or  heard  one 
spoken  of,  except  by  chance  through 
chinks  of  doors  and  in  other  forbidden 
places),  was  rather  alarmed  by  demon- 
strations so  novel  in  their  nature,  and 
showed  her  concern  so  plainly  in  her 
looks,  that  Mr.  Swiveller  felt  it  neces- 
sary to  discharge  his  brigand  manner 
for  one  more  suitable  to  private  life,  as 
he  asked,  — 

“ Do  they  often  go  where  glory  waits 
’em  and  leave  you  here  ? ” 

“ O yes  ; I believe  you,  they  do,” 
returned  the  small  servant.  “ Miss 
Sally ’s  such  a one-er  for  that,  she  is.” 

“ Such  a what  ? ” said  Dick. 

“ Such  a one-er,”  returned  the  Mar- 
chioness. 

After  a moment’s  reflection,  Mr. 
Swiveller  determined  to  forego  his  re- 
sponsible duty  of  setting  her  right,  and 
to  suffer  her  to  talk  on  ; as  it  was  evi- 
dent that  her  tongue  was  loosened  by 
the  purl,  and  her  opportunities  for  con- 
versation were  not  so  frequent  as  to 
render  a momentary  check  of  little  con- 
sequence. 

“They  sometimes  go  to  see  Mr. 
Quilp,”  said  the  small  servant,  with  a 
shrewd  look  ; “ they  go  to  a many 
places,  bless  you  1 ” 

“Is  Mr.  Brass  a wunner?”  said 
Dick. 

“ Not  half  what  Miss  Sally  is,  he 
isn’t,”  replied  the  small  servant,  shak- 
ing her  head.  “ Bless  you,  he ’d  never 
do  anything  without  her.” 

“ O,  he  would  n’t,  would  n’t  he  ? ” 
said  Dick. 

“ Miss  Sally  keeps  him  in  such  order,” 
said  the  small  servant.  “ He  always 
asks  her  advice,  he  does  ; and  he  catches 
it  sometimes.  Bless  you,  you  would  n’t 
believe  how  much  he  catches  it.” 

“I  suppose,”  said  Dick,  “that  they 
consult  together  a good  deal,  and  talk 
about  a great  many  people,  — about  me, 
for  instance,  sometimes,  eh,  Marchion- 
ess? ” 


The  Marchioness  nodded  amazingly. 

“ Complimentary  ? ” said  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller. 

The  Marchioness  changed  the  motion 
of  her  head,  which  had  not  yet  left  off 
nodding,  and  suddenly  began  to  shake 
it  from  side  to  side,  with  a vehemence 
which  threatened  to  dislocate  her  neck. 

“ Humph  !”  Dick  muttered.  “Would 
it  be  any  breach  of  confidence,  Mar- 
chioness, to  relate  what  they  say  of  the 
humble  individual  who  has  now  the 
honor  to  — ?” 

“Miss  Sally  says  you’re  a funny 
chap,”  replied  his  friend. 

“ Well,  Marchioness,”  said  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller, “that’s  not  uncomplimentary. 
Merriment,  Marchioness,  is  not  a bad 
or  a degrading  quality.  Old  King  Cole 
was  himself  a merry  old  soul,  if  we  may 
put  any  faith  in  the  pages  of  history.” 

“ But  she  says,”  pursued  his  com- 
panion, “ that  you  ain’t  to  be  trusted.” 

“Why,  really,  Marchioness,”  said 
Mr.  Swiveller,  thoughtfully ; “ several 
ladies  and  gentlemen  — not  exactly  pro- 
fessional persons,  but  tradespeople, 
ma’am,  tradespeople  — have  made  the 
same  remark.  The  obscure  citizen  who 
keeps  the  hotel  over  the  way  inclined 
strongly  to  that  opinion  to-night  when 
I ordered  him  to  prepare  the  banquet. 
It ’s  a popular  prejudice,  Marchioness  ; 
and  yet  I am  sure  I don’t  know  why, 
for  I have  been  trusted  in  my  time 
to  a considerable  amount,  and  I can 
safely  say  that  I never  forsook  my 
trust  until  it  deserted  me,  — never.  Mr. 
Brass  is  of  the  same  opinion,  I sup- 
pose? ” _ 

His  friend  nodded  again,  with  a cun- 
ning look  which  seemed  to  hint  that 
Mr.  Brass  held  stronger  opinions  on 
the  subject  than  his  sister  ; and,  seeming 
to  recollect  herself,  added  imploringly, 
“ But  don’t  you  ever  tell  upon  me,  or  1 
shall  be  beat  to  death.” 

“Marchioness,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
rising,  “ the  word  of  a gentleman  is  as- 
good  as  his  bond,  — sometimes  better, 
as  in  the  present  case,  where  his  bond 
might  prove  but  a doubtful  sort  of  se- 
curity. I am  your  friend,  and  I hope 
we  shall  play  many  more  rubbers  to- 
gether in  this  same  saloon.  But, 
Marchioness,”  added  Richard,  stopping 


250 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


in  his  way  to  the  door,  and  wheeling 
slowly  round  upon  the  small  servant, 
who  was  following  with  the  candle,  “ it 
occurs  to  me  that  you  must  be  in  the 
constant  habit  of  airing  your  eye  at 
keyholes,  to  know  all  this.” 

“ I only  wanted,”  replied  the  trem- 
bling Marchioness,  “to  know  where  the 
key  of  the  safe  was  hid  ; that  was  all ; 
and  I would  n’t  have  taken  much,  if  I 
had  found  it,  — only  enough  to  squench 
my  hunger.” 

“You  didn’t  find  it,  then?”  said 
Dick.  “But  of  course  you  didn’t,  or 
you ’d  be  plumper.  Good  night,  Mar- 
chioness. Fare  thee  well,  and  if  forev- 
er, then  forever  fare  thee  well,  — and  put 
up  the  chain,  Marchioness,  in  case  of 
accidents.” 

With  this  parting  injunction,  Mr. 
Swiveller  emerged  from  the  house  ; and, 
feeling  that  he  had  by  this  time  taken 
quite  as  much  to  drink  as  promised  to 
be  good  for  his  constitution  (purl  being 
a rather  strong  and  heady  compound), 
wisely  resolved  to  betake  himself  to  his 
lodgings,  and  to  bed  at  once.  Home- 
ward he  went,  therefore  ; and  his  apart- 
ments (for  he  still  retained  the  plural 
fiction)  being  at  no  great  distance  from 
the  office,  he  was  soon  seated  in  his 
own  bedchamber,  where,  having  pulled 
off  one  boot  and  forgotten  the  other,  he 
fell  into  deep  cogitation. 

“This  Marchioness,”  said  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller, folding  his  arms,  “is  a very  ex- 
traordinary person,  — surrounded  by 
mysteries,  ignorant  of  the  taste  of  beer, 
unacquainted  with  her  own  name  (which 
is  less  remarkable),  and  taking  a lim- 
ited view  of  society  through  the  key- 
holes of  doors.  Can  these  things  be 
her  destiny,  or  has  some  unknown  per- 
son started  an  opposition  to  the  de- 
crees of  fate?  It  is  a most  inscrutable 
and  unmitigated  staggerer  ! ” 

When  his  meditations  had  attained 
this  satisfactory  point,  he  became  aware 
of  his  remaining  boot,  of  which,  with 
unimpaired  solemnity,  he  proceeded  to 
divest  himself,  shaking  his  head  with 
exceeding  gravity  all  the  time,  and  sigh- 
ing deeply. 

“ These  rubbers,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
putting  on  his  nightcap  in  exactly  the 
same  style  as  he  wore  his  hat,  “remind 


me  of  the  matrimonial  fireside.  Cheggs’s 
wife  plays  cribbage  ; all-fours  likewise. 
She  rings  the  changes  on  ’em  now. 
From  sport  to  sport  they  hurry  her,  to 
banish  her  regrets,  and  when  they  win 
a smile  from  her,  they  think  that  she 
forgets,  — but  she  don’t.  By  this  time, 
I should  say,”  added  Richard,  getting 
his  left  cheek  into  profile,  and  looking 
complacently  at  the  reflection  of  a very 
little  scrap  of  whisker  in  the  looking- 
glass,  — “by  this  time,  I should  say, 
the  iron  has  entered  into  her  soul.  It 
serves  her  right!” 

Melting  from  this  stern  and  obdurate, 
into  the  tender  and  pathetic  mood,  Mr. 
Swiveller  groaned  a little,  walked  wildly 
up  and  down,  and  even  made  a show 
of  tearing  his  hair,  which,  however,  he 
thought  better  of,  and  wrenched  the 
tassel  from  his  nightcap,  instead.  At 
last,  undressing  himself  with  a gloomy 
resolution,  he  got  into  bed. 

Some  men  in  his  blighted  position 
would  have  taken  to  drinking ; but  as 
Mr.  Swiveller  had  taken  to  that  before, 
he  only  took,  on  receiving  the  news 
that  Sophy  Wackles  was  lost  to  him 
forever,  to  playing  the  flute  ; thinking, 
after  mature  consideration,  that  it  was  a 
good,  sound,  dismal  occupation,  not  on- 
ly in  unison  with  his  own  sad  thoughts, 
but  calculated  to  awaken  a fellow-feel- 
ing in  the  bosoms  of  his  neighbors.  In 
pursuance  of  this  resolution,  he  now 
drew  a little  table  to  his  bedside,  and, 
arranging  the  light  and  a small  oblong 
music-book  to  the  best  advantage,  took 
his  flute  from  its  box,  and  began  to 
play  most  mournfully. 

The  air  was,  “Away  with  melan- 
choly,” a composition  which,  when  it 
is  played  very  slowly  on  the  flute,  in 
bed,  with  the  further  disadvantage  of 
being  performed  by  a gentleman  but 
imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  instru- 
ment, who  repeats  one  note  a great 
many  times  before  he  can  find  the 
next,  has  not  a lively  effect.  Yet,  for 
half  the  night  or  more,  Mr.  Swiveller, 
lying  sometimes  on  his  back  with  his 
eyes  upon  the  ceiling,  and  sometimes 
half  out  of  bed  to  correct  himself  by  the 
book,  played  this  unhappy  tune  over 
and  over  again  ; never  leaving  off,  save 
for  a minute  or  two  at  a time  to  take 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


251 


breath  and  soliloquize  about  the  Mar- 
chioness, and  then  beginning  again 
with  renewed  vigor.  It  was  not  until 
he  had  quite  exhausted  his  several  sub- 
jects of  meditation,  and  had  breathed 
into  the  flute  the  whole  sentiment  of  the 
purl  down  to  its  very  dregs,  and  had 
nearly  maddened  the  people  of  the 
house,  and  at  both  the  next  doors,  and 
over  the  way,  that  he  shut  up  the 
music-book,  extinguished  the  candle, 
and,  finding  himself  greatly  lightened 
and  relieved  in  his  mind,  turned  round 
and  fell  asleep. 

He  awoke  in  the  morning,  much  re- 
freshed; and,  having  taken  half  an 
hour’s  exercise  at  the  flute,  and  gra- 
ciously received  a notice  to  quit  from 
his  landlady,  who  had  been  in  waiting 
on  the  stairs  for  that  purpose  since  the 
dawn  of  day,  repaired  to  Bevis  Marks  ; 
where  the  beautiful  Sally  was  already 
at  her  post,  bearing  in  her  looks  a radi- 
ance mild  as  that  which  beameth  from 
the  virgin  moon. 

Mr.  Swiveller  acknowledged  her  pres- 
ence by  a nod,  and  exchanged  his  coat 
for  the  aquatic  jacket;  which  usually 
took  some  time  fitting  on,  for,  in  conse- 
quence of  a tightness  in  the  sleeves,  it 
was  only  to  be  got  into  by  a series  of 
struggles.  This  difficulty  overcome,  he 
took  his  seat  at  the  desk. 

“ I say,”  quoth  Miss  Brass,  abrupt- 
ly breaking  silence,  “ you  have  n’t  seen 
a silver  pencil-case  this  morning,  have 
you?  ” 

“ I didn’t  meet  many  in  the  street,” 
rejoined  Mr.  Swiveller.  “ I saw  one,  — 
a stout  pencil-case  of  respectable  ap- 
pearance, — but  as  he  was  in  company 
with  an  elderly  penknife,  and  a young 
toothpick  with  whom  he  was  in  earnest 
conversation,  I felt  a delicacy  in  speak- 
ing to  him.” 

“ No,  but  have  you?”  returned  Miss 
Brass.  “ Seriously,  you  know.” 

“What  a dull  dog  you  must  be  to 
ask  me  such  a question  seriously,”  said 
Mr.  Swiveller.  “ Have  n’t  I this  mo- 
ment come  ? ” 

“Well,  all  I know  is,”  replied  Miss 
Sally,  “ that  it ’s  not  to  be  found,  and 
that  it  disappeared  one  day  this  week, 
when  I left  it  on  the  desk.” 

“Halloa!”  thought  Richard,  “I  hope 


the  Marchioness  hasn’t  been  at  work 
here.” 

“There  was  a knife  too,”  said  Miss 
Sally,  “of  the  same  pattern.  They 
were  given  to  me  bj’-  my  father,  years 
ago,  and  are  both  gone.  You  have  n’t 
missed  anything  yourself,  have  you?” 

Mr.  Swiveller  involuntarily  clapped 
his  hands  to  the  jacket  to  be  quite  sure 
that  it  was  a jacket  and  not  a skirted 
coat ; and  having  satisfied  himself  of 
the  safety  of  this,  his  only  movable  in 
Bevis  Marks,  made  answer  in  the  nega- 
tive. 

“ It ’s  a very  unpleasant  thing,  Dick,” 
said  Miss  Brass,  pulling  out  the  tin  box 
and  refreshing  herself  with  a pinch  of 
snuff;  “but  between  you  and  me  — 
between  friends  you  know,  for  if  Sam- 
my knew  it,  I should  never  hear  the 
last  of  it  — some  of  the  office  money, 
too,  that  has  been  left  about,  has  gone 
in  the  same  way.  In  particular,  I have 
missed  three  half-crowns  at  three  dif- 
ferent times.i’ 

“ You  don’t  mean  that?  ” cried  Dick. 
“ Be  careful  what  you  say,  old  boy,  for 
this  is  a serious  matter.  Are  you  quite 
sure  ? Is  there  no  mistake  ? ” 

“It  is  so,  and  there  can’t  be  any  mis- 
take at  all,”  rejoined  Miss  Brass,  em- 
phatically. 

“Then  by  Jove,”  thought  Richard, 
laying  down  his  pen,  “ I am  afraid  the 
Marchioness  is  done  for!” 

The  more  he  discussed  the  subject  in 
his  thoughts,  the  more  probable  it  ap- 
peared to  Dick  that  the  miserable  little 
servant  was  the  culprit.  When  he  con- 
sidered on  what  a spare  allowance  of 
food  she  lived,  how  neglected  and  un- 
taught she  was,  and  how  her  natural 
cunning  had  been  sharpened  by  neces- 
sity and  privation,  he  scarcely  doubted 
it.  And  yet  he  pitied  her  so  much,  and 
felt  so  unwilling  to  have  a matter  of 
such  gravity  disturbing  the  oddity  of 
their  acquaintance,  that  he  thought, 
and  thought  truly,  that,  rather  than  re- 
ceive fifty  pounds  down,  he  would  have 
the  Marchioness  proved  innocent. 

While  he  was  plunged  in  very  pro- 
fount!  and  serious  meditation  upon  this 
theme,  Miss  Sally  sat  shaking  her  head 
with  an  air  of  great  mystery  and  doubt ; 
when  the  voice  of  her  brother  Sampson, 


252 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


carolling  a cheerful  strain,  was  heard  in 
the  passage,  and  that  gentleman  him- 
self, beaming  with  virtuous  smiles,  ap- 
peared. 

“Mr.  Richard,  sir,  good  morning  ! 
Here  we  are  again,  sir,  entering  upon 
another  day,  with  our  bodies  strength- 
ened by  slumber  and  breakfast,  and  our 
spirits  fresh  and  flowing.  Here  we  are, 
Mr.  Richard,  rising  with  the  sun  to  run 
our  little  course,  — our  course  of  duty, 
sir,  — and,  like  him,  to  get  through  our 
day’s  work  with  credit  to  ourselves  and 
advantage  to  our  fellow-creatures.  A 
charming  reflection,  sir,  very  charm- 
ing ! ” . 

While  he  addressed  his  clerk  in  these 
words,  Mr.  Brass  was  somewhat  osten- 
tatiously engaged  in  minutely  examin- 
ing and  holding  up  against  the  light  a 
five-pound  bank-note,  which  he  had 
brought  in  in  his  hand. 

Mr.  Richard  not  receiving  his  remarks 
with  anything  like  enthusiasm,  his  em- 
ployer turned  his  eyes  to  his  face,  and 
observed  that  it  wore  a troubled  expres- 
sion. 

“You’re  out  of  spirits,  sir,”  said  Brass. 
“Mr.  Richard,  sir,  we  should  fall  to 
work  cheerfully,  and  not  in  a despondent 
state.  It  becomes  us,  Mr.  Richard,  sir, 
to  — ” 

Here  the  chaste  Sarah  heaved  a loud 
sigh. 

“ Dear  me  ! ” said  Mr.  Sampson, 
“you  too!  Is  anything  the  matter? 
Mr.  Richard,  sir  — ” 

Dick,  glancing  at  Miss  Sally,  saw  that 
she  was  making  signals  to  him  to  ac- 
quaint her  brother  with  the  subject  of 
their  recent  conversation.  As  his  own 
position  was  not  a very  pleasant  one 
until  the  matter  was  set  at  rest  one  way 
or  other,  he  did  so ; and  Miss  Brass, 
plying  her  snuffbox  at  a most  wasteful 
rate,  corroborated  his  account. 

The  countenance  of  Sampson  fell, 
and  anxiety  overspread  his  features. 
Instead  of  passionately  bewailing  the 
loss  of  his  money,  as  Miss  Sally  had 
expected,  he  walked  on  tiptoe  to  the 
door,  opened  it,  looked  outside,  shut  it 
softly,  returned  on  tiptoe,  and  said  In  a 
whisper  : — 

“ This  is  a most  extraordinary  and 
panful  circumstance,  — Mr.  Richard, 


sir,  a most  painful  circumstance.  The 
fact  is,  that  I myself  have  missed  sev- 
eral small  sums  from  the  desk  of  late, 
and  have  refrained  from  mentioning  it, 
hoping  that  accident  would  discover  the 
offender;  but  it  has  not  done  so, — it 
has  not  done  so.  Sally,  Mr.  Richard, 
sir,  this  is  a particularly  distressing 
affair  ! ” 

As  Sampson  spoke,  he  laid  the  bank- 
note upon  the  desk  among  some  papers, 
in  an  absent  manner,  and  thrust  his 
hands  into  his  pockets.  Richard  Swivel- 
ler  pointed  to  it,  and  admonished  him 
to  take  it  up. 

“ No,  Mr.  Richard,  sir,”  rejoined 
Brass,  with  emotion,  “ I will  not  take  it 
up.  I will  let  it  lie  there,  sir.  To  take 
it  up,  Mr.  Richard,  sir,  would  imply  a 
doubt  of  you  ; and  in  you,  sir,  I have 
unlimited  confidence.  We  will  let  it 
lie  there,  sir,  if  you  please,  and  we  will 
not  take  it  up  by  any  means.”  With 
that,  Mr.  Brass  patted  him  twice  or 
thrice  on  the  shoulder  in  a most  friendly 
manner,  and  entreated  him  to  believe 
that  he  had  as  much  faith  in  his  honesty 
as  he  had  in  his  own. 

Although  at  another  time  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler  might  have  looked  upon  this  as  a 
doubtful  compliment,  he  felt  it,  under 
the  then  existing  circumstances,  a great 
relief  to  be  assured  that  he  was  not 
wrongfully  suspected.  When  he  had 
made  a suitable  reply,  Mr.  Brass  wrung 
him  by  the  hand,  and  fell  into  a brown 
study,  as  did  Miss  Sally  likewise. 
Richard  too  remained  in  a thoughtful 
state  ; fearing  every  moment  to  hear  the 
Marchion'ess  impeached,  and  unable  to 
resist  the  conviction  that  she  must  be 
guilty. 

When  they  had  severally  remained  in 
this  condition  for  some  minutes,  Miss 
Sally  all  at  once  gave  a loud  rap  upon 
the  desk  with  her  clenched  fist,  and 
cried,  “I’ve  hit  it!”^r-as  indeed  she 
had,  and  chipped  a piece  out  of  it  too  ; 
but  that  was  not  her  meaning. 

“ Well,”  cried  Brass,  anxiously.  “Go 
on,  will  you? ” 

“ Why,”  replied  his  sister  with  an  air 
of  triumph,  “hasn’t  there  been  some- 
body always  coming  in  and  out  of  this 
office  for  the  last  three  or  four  weeks? 
hasn’t  that  somebody  been  left  alone 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


253 


in  it  sometimes  — thanks  to  you  ? and 
do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  that  some- 
body isn’t  the  thief?  ” 

“ What  somebody  ? ” blustered  Brass. 

“ Why,  what  do  you  call  him  ? — Kit.” 

“Mr.  Garland’s  young  man?” 

“ To  be  sure.” 

“ Never  ! ” cried  Brass.  “ Never. 
I ’ll  not  hear  of  it.  Don’t  tell  me — ” 
said  Sampson,  shaking  his  head,  and 
working  with  both  his  hands  as  if  he 
were  clearing  away  ten  thousand  cob- 
webs. “ I ’ll  never  believe  it  of  him. 
Never  ! ” 

“ I say,”  repeated  Miss  Brass,  taking 
another  pinch  of  snuff,  “ that  he ’s  the 
thief.” 

“ I say,”  returned  Sampson,  violently, 
“ that  he  is  not.  What  do  you  mean  ? 
How  dare  you?  Are  characters  to  be 
whispered  away  like  this  ? Do  you 
know  that  he ’s  the  honestest  and  faith- 
fullest  fellow  that  ever  lived,  and  that 
he  has  an  irreproachable  good  name? 
Come  in,  come  in  ! ” 

These  last  words  were  not  addressed 
to  Miss  Sally,  though  they  partook  of 
the  tone  in  which  the  indignant  remon- 
strances that  preceded  them  had  been 
uttered.  They  were  addressed  to  some 
person  who  had  knocked  at  the  office 
door  ; and  they  had  hardly  passed  the 
lips  of  Mr.  Brass,  when  this  very  Kit 
himself  looked  in. 

“ Is  the  gentleman  up  stairs,  sir,  if 
jmu  please?” 

“Yes,  Kit,”  said  Brass,  still  fired 
with  an  honest  indignation,  and  frown- 
ing w'ith  knotted  brows  upon  his  sister, 
— “ yes,  Kit,  he  is.  I am  glad  to  see 
you,  Kit,  I am  rejoiced  to  see  you.  Look 
in  again,  as  you  come  down  stairs,  Kit. 
That  lad  a robber  ! ” cried  Brass,  when 
he  had  withdrawn,  “ with  that  frank 
and  open  countenance  ! I ’d  trust  him 
with  untold  gold.  Mr.  Richard,  sir, 
have  the  goodness  to  step  directly  to 
Wrasp  and  Co.’s  in  Broad  Street,  and 
inquire  if  they  have  had  instructions 
to  appear  in  Carkem  and  Painter. 
That  lad  a robber  ! ” sneered  Sampson, 
flushed  and  heated  with  his  wrath. 
“Am  I blind,  deaf,  silly?  Do  I know 
nothing  of  human  nature  when  I see  it 
before  me  ? Kit  a robber  ! Bah  ! ” 

Flinging  this  final  interjection  at  Miss 


Sally  with  immeasurable  scorn  and  con- 
tempt, Sampson  Brass  thrust  his  head 
into  his  desk,  as  if  to  shut  the  base 
world  from  his  view,  and  breathed  de- 
fiance from  under  its  half- closed  lid. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

When  Kit,  having  discharged  his  er- 
rand, came  down  stairs  from  the  single 
gentleman’s  apartment  after  the  lapse 
of  a quarter  of  an  hour  or  so,  Mr. 
Sampson  Brass  was  alone  in  the  office; 
He  was  not  singing  as  usual,  nor  was 
he  seated  at  his  desk.  The  open  door 
showed  him  standing  before  the  fire 
with  his  back  towards  it,  and  looking 
so  very  strange  that  Kit  supposed  he 
must  have  been  suddenly  taken  ill. 

“Is  anything  the  matter,  sir?”  said 
Kit. 

“ Matter  ! ” cried  Brass.  “ No. 
Why  anything  the  matter  ? ” 

“ You  are  so  very  pale,”  said  Kit, 
“ that  I should  hardly  have  known 
you.” 

“ Pooh,  pooh  ! mere  fancy,”  cried 
Brass,  stooping  to  throw  up  the  cinders. 
“ Never  better,  Kit,  never  better  in  all 
my  life.  Merry,  too.  Ha,  ha  ! How ’s 
our  friend  above  stairs,  eh?” 

“ A great  deal  better,”  said  Kit.  _ 

“ I ’m  glad  to  hear  it,”  rejoined 
Brass;  “thankful,  I may  say.  An  ex- 
cellent gentleman,  — worthy,  liberal, 
generous,  gives  very  little  trouble,  — 
an  admirable  lodger.  Ha,  ha  ! Mr. 
Garland,  — he ’s  well  I hope,  Kit  ? 
and  the  pony,  — my  friend,  my  particu- 
lar friend,  you  know.  Ha,  ha  ! ” 

Kit  gave  a satisfactory  account  of  all 
the  little  household  at  Abel  Cottage. 
Mr.  Brass,  who  seemed  remarkably  in- 
attentive and  impatient,  mounted  on 
his  stool,  and,  beckoning  him  to  come 
nearer,  took  him  by  the  button-hole. 

“ I have  been  thinking,  Kit,”  said  the 
laVvyer,  “ that  I could  throw  some  little 
emoluments  into  your  mother’s  way  — 
You  have  a mother,  I think?  If  I rec- 
ollect right,  you  told  me-—” 

“ O yes,  sir  ; yes,  certainly.” 

“A  widow,  I think?  an  industrious, 
widow?  ” 


254 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“ A harder- working  woman  or  a bet- 
ter mother  never  lived,  sir.” 

“Ah!”  cried  Brass.  “That’s  af- 
fecting, truly  affecting.  A poor  widow, 
struggling  to  maintain  her  orphans  in 
decency  and  comfort,  is  a delicious  pic- 
ture of  human  goodness.  Put  down 
your  hat,  Kit.” 

“ Thank  you,  sir,  I must  be  going 
directly.” 

“ Put  it  down  while  you  stay,  at  any 
rate,”  said  Brass,  taking  it  from  him 
and  making  some  confusion  among  the 
papers  in  finding  a place  for  it  on  the 
•desk.  “ I was  thinking,  Kit,  that  we 
have  often  houses  to  let  for  people  we 
are  concerned  for,  and  matters  of  that 
sort.  Now,  you  know,  we  ’re  obliged  to 
put  people  into  those  houses  to  take 
care  of  ’em,  — very  often  undeserving 
people  that  we  can’t  depend  upon. 
What ’s  to  prevent  our  having  a person 
that  we  can  depend  upon,  and  enjoying 
the  delight  of  doing  a good  action  at  the 
same  time  ? I say,  what ’s  to  prevent 
our  employing  this  worthy  woman,  your 
mother  ? What  with  one  job  and  an- 
other, there ’s  lodging  — and  good  lodg- 
ing too  — pretty  well  all  the  year  round, 
rent  free,  and  a weekly  allowance  be- 
sides, Kit,  that  would  provide  her  with 
a great  many  comforts  she  don’t  at 
present  enjoy.  Now  what  do  you  think 
of  that  ? Do  you  see  any  objection  ? 
My  only  desire  is  to  serve  you,  Kit  ; 
therefore,  if  you  do,  say  so  freely.” 

As  Brass  spoke,  he  moved  the  hat 
twice  or  thrice,  and  shuffled  among  the 
papers  again,  as  if  in  search  of  some- 
thing. 

“ How  can  I see  any  objection  to 
such  a kind  offer,  sir  ? ” replied  Kit,  with 
his  whole  heart.  “ I don’t  know  how 
to  thank  you,  sir,  I don’t  indeed.” 

“Why,  then,”  said  Brass,  suddenly 
turning  upon  him  and  thrusting  his  face 
close  to  Kit’s  with  such  a repulsive 
smile  that  the  latter,  even  in  the  very 
height  of  his  gratitude,  drew  back,  quite 
startled,  — “ why,  then,  it ’s  done." 

Kit  looked  at  him  in  some  confusion. 

“ Done,  I say,”  added  Sampson,  rub- 
bing his  hands  and  veiling  himself  again 
in  his  usual  oily  manner.  “ Ha,  ha  ! 
and  so  you  shall  find,  Kit,  so  you  shall 
find.  But,  dear  me,”  said  Brass,  “ what 


a time  Mr.  Richard  is  gone!  A sad 
loiterer  to  be  sure  ! Will  you  mind  the 
office  one  minute,  while  I run  up  stairs? 
Only  one  minute.  I ’ll  not  detain  you 
an  instant  longer  on  any  account, 
Kit.” 

Talking  as  he  went,  Mr.  Brass  bus- 
tled out  of  the  office,  and  in  a very  short 
time  returned.  Mr.  Swiveller  came 
back,  almost  at  the  same  instant  ; and 
as  Kit  was  leaving  the  room  hastily,  to 
make  up  for  lost  time,  Miss  Brass  her- 
self encountered  him  in  the  doorway. 

“ Oh  ? ” sneered  Sally,  looking  after 
him  as  she  entered.  “ There  goes  your 
pet,  Sammy,  eh  ? ” 

“Ah  ! There  he  goes,”  replied  Brass. 
“ My  pet,  if  you  please.  An  honest 
fellow,  Mr.  Richard,  sir,  — a worthy 
fellow  indeed  ! ” 

“ Hem  ! ” coughed  Miss  Brass. 

“I  tell  you,  you  aggravating  vaga- 
bond,” said  the  angry  Sampson,  “ that 
I ’d  stake  my  life  upon  his  honesty. 
Am  I never  to  hear  the  last  of  this? 
Am  I always  to  be  baited  and  beset 
by  your  mean  suspicions?  Have  you 
no  regard  for  true  merit,  you  malignant 
fellow?  If  you  come  to  that,  I ’d  sooner 
suspect  your  honesty  than  his.” 

Miss  Sally  pulled  out  the  tin  snuff- 
box, and  took  a long,  slow  pinch,  re- 
garding her  brother  with  a steady  gaze 
all  the  time. 

“ She  drives  me  wild,  Mr.  Richard, 
sir,”  said  Brass;  “she  exasperates  me 
beyond  all  bearing.  I am  heated  and 
excited,  sir,  I know  I am.  These  are 
not  business  manners,  sir,  nor  business 
looks,  but  she  carries  me  out  of  my- 
self.” 

“ Why  don’t  you  leave  him  alone  ? ” 
said  Dick. 

“ Because  she  can’t,  sir,”  retorted 
Brass  ; “ because  to  chafe  and  vex  me 
is  a part  of  her  nature,  sir,  and  she  will 
and  must  do  it,  or  I don’t  believe  she ’d 
have  her  health.  But  never  mind,” 
said  Brass,  “ never  mind  I ’ve  carried 
my  point.  I ’ve  shown  my  confidence 
in  the  lad.  He  has  minded  the  office 
again.  Ha,  ha  ! Ugh,  you  viper  ! ” 

The  beautiful  virgin  took  another 
pinch,  and  put  the  snuffbox  in  her  pock- 
et, still  looking  at  her  brother  with  per- 
fect composure. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


255 


“ He  has  minded  the  office  again,” 
said  Brass,  triumphantly  ; “he  has  had 
my  confidence,  and  he  shall  continue  to 
have  it  ; he  — why,  where ’s  the — ” 

“ What  have  you  lost?  ” inquired  Mr. 
Swiveller. 

“ Dear  me!”  said  Brass,  slapping  all 
his  pockets,  one  after  another,  and 
looking  into  his  desk,  and  under  it,  and 
upon  it,  and  wildly  tossing  the  papers 
about,  “ the  note,  Mr.  Richard,  sir,  the 
five-pound  note,  — what  can  have  be- 
come of  it  ? I laid  it  down  here  — God 
biess  me  ! ” 

“ What  ! ” cried  Miss  Sally,  starting 
up,  clapping  her  hands,  and  scattering, 
the  papers  on  the  floor.  “ Gone  ! Now 
who’s  right?  Now  who’s  got  it? 
Never  mind  five  pounds,  — what ’s  five 
ounds  ? He ’s  honest,  you  know,  quite 
onest.  It  would  be  mean  to  suspect 
him.  Don’t  run  after  him.  No,  no, 
not  for  the  world  ! ” 

“ Is  it  really  gone,  though  ? ” said 
Dick,  looking  at  Brass  with  a face  as 
pale  as  his  own. 

“Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Richard,  sir,” 
replied  the  lawyer,  feeling  in  all  his 
pockets  with  looks  of  the  greatest  agi- 
tation, “ I fear  this  is  a black  busi- 
ness. It ’s  certainly  gone,  sir.  What ’s 
to  be  done?  ” 

“ Don’t  run  after  him,”  said  Miss  Sal- 
ly, taking  more  snuff.  “ Don’t  run  af- 
ter him  on  any  account.  Give  him  time 
to  get  rid  of  it,  you  know.  It  would  be 
cruel  to  find  him  out  ! ” 

Mr.  Swiveller  and  Sampson  Brass 
looked  from  Miss  Sally  to  each  other, 
in  a state  of  bewilderment,  and  then, 
as  by  one  impulse,  caught  up  their 
hats  and  rushed  out  into  the  street, 
darting  along  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  and  dashing  aside  all  obstruc- 
tions, as  though  they  were  running  for 
their  lives. 

It  happened  that  Kit  had  been  run- 
ning too,  though  not  so  fast,  and,  hav- 
ing the  start  of  them  by  some  few  min- 
utes, was  a good  distance  ahead.  As 
they  were  pretty  certain  of  the  road  he 
must  have  taken,  however,  and  kept 
on  at  a great  pace,  they  came  up 
with  him  at  the  very  moment  when 
he  had  taken  breath  and  was  break- 
ing into  a run  again. 


“Stop!”  cried  Sampson,  laying  his 
hand  on  one  shoulder,  while  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller pounced  upon  the  other.  “ Not  so 
fast,  sir.  You  ’re  in  a hurry  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I am,”  said  Kit,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other  in  great  surprise. 

“ I — I — can  hardly  believe  it,”  panted 
Sampson,  “but  something  of  value  is 
missing  from  the  office.  I hope  you 
don’t  know  what.” 

“ Know  what ! good  Heaven,  Mr. 
Brass  ! ” cried  Kit,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot;  “you  don’t  suppose  — ” 

“ No,  no,”  rejoined  Brass,  quickly, 
“ I don’t  suppose  anything.  Don’t  say 
/ said  you  did.  You  ’ll  come  back  qui- 
etly, I hope  ? ” 

“ Of  course  I will,”  returned  Kit. 
“ Why  not?” 

“To  be  sure!”  said  Brass.  “Why 
not?  I hope  there  may  turn  out  to 
be  no  why  not.  If  you  knew  the  trou- 
ble I ’ve  been^  in  this  morning,  through 
taking  your  part,  Christopher,  you ’d  be 
sorry  for  it.” 

“"And  I am  sure  you’ll  be  sorry 
for  having  suspected  me,  sir,”  replied 
Kit.  “ Come.  Let  us  make  haste 
back.” 

“ Certainly ! ” cried  Brass,  “the  quick- 
er, the  better.  Mr.  Richard,  have  the 
goodness,  sir,  to  take  that  arm.  “ I ’ll 
take  this  one.  It’s  not  easy  walking 
three  abreast,  but  under  these  circum- 
stances it  must  be  done,  sir ; there ’s 
no  help  for  it.” 

Kit  did  turn  from  white  to  red,  and  from 
red  to  white  again,  when  they  secured 
him  thus,  and  for  a moment  seemed 
disposed  to  resist.  But  quickly  recol- 
lecting himself,  and  remembering  that 
if  he  made  any  struggle,  he  would  per- 
haps be.  dragged  by  the  collar  through 
the  public  streets,  he  only  repeated,  with 
great  earnestness  and  with  the  tears 
standing  in  his  eyes,  that  they  would 
be  sorry  for  this,  and  suffered  them 
to  lead  him  off.  While  they  were  on 
the  way  back,  Mr.  Swiveller,  upon 
whom  his  present  functions  sat  very 
irksomely,  took  an  opportunity  of  whis- 
pering in  his  ear,  that  if  he  would  con- 
fess his  guilt,  even  by  so  much  as  a nod, 
and  promise  not  to  do  so  any  more,  he 
would  connive  at  his  kicking  Sampson 
Brass  on  the  shins  and  escaping  up  a 


2$6 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


court ; but  Kit  indignantly  rejecting 
this  proposal,  Mr.  Richard  had  noth- 
ing for  it  but  to  hold  him  tight  until 
they  reached  Bevis  Marks,  and  ush- 
ered him  into  the  presence  of  the 
charming  Sarah,  who  immediately  took 
the  precaution  of  locking  the  door. 

“Now,  you  know,”  said  Brass,  “if 
this  is  a case  of  innocence,  it  is  a case 
of  that  description,  Christopher,  where 
the  fullest  disclosure  is  the  best  sat- 
isfaction for  everybody.  Therefore,  if 
you’ll  consent  to  an  examination,”  he 
demonstrated  what  kind  of  examination 
he  meant  by  turning  back  the  cuffs  of 
his  coat,  “it  will  be  a comfortable  and 
pleasant  thing  for  all  parties.” 

“ Search  me,”  said  Kit,  proudly  hold- 
ing up  his  arms.  “But  mind,  sir,  I 
know  you  ’ll  be  sorry  for  this,  to  the 
last  day  of  your  life.” 

“ It  is  certainly  a very  painful  occur- 
rence,” said  Brass,  with  a sigh,  as  he 
dived  into  one  of  Kit’s  pockets,  and 
fished  up  a miscellaneous  collection  of 
small  articles;  “ve'ry  painful.  Noth- 
ing here,  Mr.  Richard,  sir,  all  perfectly 
satisfactory.  Nor  here,  sir.  Nor  in 
the  waistcoat,  Mr.  Richard,  nor  in  the 
coat-tails.  So  far,  I am  rejoiced,  I am 
sure.” 

Richard  Swiveller,  holding  Kit’s  hat 
in  his  hand,  was  watching  the  proceed- 
ings with  great  interest,  and  bore  upon 
his  face  the  slightest  possible  indication 
of  a smile,  as  Brass,  shutting  one  of  his 
eyes,  looked  with  the  other  up  the  inside 
of  one  of  the  poor  fellow’s  sleeves  as 
if  it  were  a telescope,  when  Sampson, 
turning  hastily  to  him,  bade  him  search 
the  hat. 

“Here’s  a handkerchief,”  said 
Dick. 

“No  harm  in  that,  sir,”  rejoined 
Brass,  applying  his  eye  to  the  other 
sleeve,  and  speaking  in  the  voice  of  one 
who  was  contemplating  an  immense 
extent  of  prospect.  “ No  harm  in  a 
handkerchief,  sir.  whatever.  The  facul- 
ty don’t  consider  it  a healthy  custom, 

I believe,  Mr.  Richard,  to  carry  one’s 
handkerchief  in  one ’s  hat,  — I have 
heard  that  it  keeps  the  head  too  warm, 
— but  in  every  other  point  of  view,  its 
being  there  is  extremely  satisfactory,  — 
ex-tremely  so.” 


An  exclamation,  at  once  from  Richard 
Swiveller,  Miss  Sally,  and  Kit  himself, 
cut  the  lawyer  short.  He  turned  his 
head,  and  saw  Dick  standing  with  the 
bank-note  in  his  hand. 

“In  the  hat?  ” cried  Brass,  in  a sort 
of  shriek. 

“ Under  the  handkerchief,  and  tucked 
beneath  the  lining,”  said  Dick,  aghast 
at  the  discovery. 

Mr.  Brass  looked  at  him,  at  his  sister, 
at  the  walls,  at  the  ceiling,  at  the  floor, 
— everywhere  but  at  Kit,  who  stood 
quite  stupefied  and  motionless. 

“ And  this,”  cried  Sampson,  clasping 
his  hands,  “ is  the  world  that  turns  up- 
on its  own  axis,  and  has  Lunar  influen- 
ces, and  revolutions  round  Heavenly 
Bodies,  and  various  games  of  that  sort  ! 
This  is  human  natur,  is  it?  O natur, 
natur  ! This  is  the  miscreant  that  I 
was  going  to  benefit  with  all  my  little 
arts,  and  that,  even  now,  I feel  so  much 
for  as  to  wish  to  let  him  go  ! But,” 
added  Mr.  Brass  with  greater  fortitude, 
“ I am  myself  a lawyer,  and  bound  to 
set  an  example  in  carrying  the  laws  of 
my  happy  country  into  effect.  Sally,  my 
dear,  forgive  me,  and  catch  hold  of  him 
on  the  other  side.  Mr.  Richard,  sir, 
have  the  goodness  to  run  and  fetch  a 
constable.  The  weakness  is  past  and 
over,  sir,  and  moral  strength  returns.  A 
constable,  sir,  i i you  please  l ” 


CHAPTER  LX. 

Kit  stood  as  one  entranced,  with  his 
eyes  opened  wide  and  fixed  upon  the 
ground,  regardless  alike  of  the  tremu- 
lous hold  which  Mr.  Brass  maintained 
on  one  side  of  his  cravat,  and  of  the 
firmer  grasp  of  Miss  Sally  upon  the 
other ; although  this  latter  detention 
was  in  itself  no  small  inconvenience,  as 
that  fascinating  woman,  besides  screw- 
ing her  knuckles  inconveniently  into 
his  throat  from  time  to  time,  had  fas- 
tened upon  him  in  the  first  instance 
with  so  tight  a grip  that  even  in  the 
disorder  and  distraction  of  his  thoughts 
he  could  not  divest  himself  of  an  uneasy 
sense  of  choking.  Between  the  brother 
and  sister  he  remained  in  this  posture, 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


2 57 


uite  unresisting  and  passive,  until  Mr. 
wiveller  returned,  with  a police  consta- 
ble at  his  heels. 

This  functionary,  being,  of  course, 
well  used  to  such  scenes,  looking  upon 
all  kinds  of  robbery,  from  petty  larceny 
up  to  housebreaking  or  ventures  on 
the  highway,  as  matters  in  the  regular 
course  of  business,  and  regarding  the 
perpetrators  in  the  light  of  so  many  cus- 
tomers coming  to  be  served  at  the  whole- 
sale and  retail  shop  of  criminal  law 
where  he  stood  behind  the  counter, 
received  Mr.  Brass’s  statement  of  facts 
with  about  as  much  interest  and  sur- 
prise as  an  undertaker  might  evince  if 
required  to  listen  to  a circumstantial 
account  of  the  last  illness  of  a person 
whom  he  was  called  in  to  wait  upon 
professionally,  and  took  Kit  into  cus- 
tody with  a decent  indifference. 

“We  had  better,”  said  this  subordi- 
nate minister  of  justice,  “get  to  the  of- 
fice while  there ’s  a magistrate  sitting. 
I shall  want  you  to  come  along  with  us, 
Mr.  Brass,  and  the  — ” he  looked  at 
Miss  Sally  as  if  in  some  doubt  whether 
she  might  not  be  a griffin  or  other  fabu- 
lous monster. 

“ The  lady,  eh  ? ” said  Sampson. 

“ Ah  ! ” replied  the  constable.  “ Yes, 
the  lady.  Likewise  the  young  man 
that  found  the  property.” 

“Mr.  Richard,  sir,”  said  Brass,  in  a 
mournful  voice.  “ A sad  necessity. 
But  the  altar  of  our  country,  sir  — ” 
“You’ll  have  a hackney-coach,  I 
suppose?”  interrupted  the  constable, 
holding  Kit  (whom  his  other  captors 
had  released)  carelessly  by  the  arm,  a 
little  above  the  elbow.  “ Be  so  good  as 
send  for  one,  will  you?” 

“But  hear  me  speak  a word,”  cried 
Kit,  raising  his  eyes  and  looking  im- 
ploringly about  him.  “ Hear  me  speak 
a word.  I am  no  more  guilty  than  any 
one  of  you.  Upon  my  soul,  I am  not. 
I a thief!  O Mr.  Brass,  you  know 
me  better.  I am  sure  you  know  me 
better.  This  is  not  right  of  you,  in- 
deed.” 

“ I give  you  my  word,  constable  — ” 
said  Brass.  But  here  the  constable  in- 
terposed with  the  constitutional  princi- 
ple “ words  be  blowed  ” ; observing  that 
words  were  but  spoon-meat  for  babes 


and  sucklings,  and  that  oaths  were  the 
food  for  strong  men. 

“ Quite  true,  constable,”  assented 
Brass  in  the  same  mournful  tone. 
“ Strictly  correct.  I give  you  my  oath, 
constable,  that  down  to  a few  minutes 
ago,  when  this  fatal  discovery  was  made, 
I had  such  confidence  in  that  lad  that 
I ’d  have  trusted  him  with — A hack- 
ney-coach, Mr.  Richard,  sir;  you’re 
very  slow,  sir.” 

“ Who  is  there  that  knows  me,”  cried 
Kit,  “that  would  not  trust  me, — that 
does  not  ? Ask  anybody  whether  they 
have  ever  doubted  me ; whether  I 
have  ever  wronged  them  of  a farthing. 
Was  I ever  once  dishonest  when  I was 
poor  and  hungry,  and  is  it  likely  I would 
begin  now  ! O,  consider  what  you  do. 
How  can  I meet  the  kindest  friends 
that  ever  human  creature  had  with  this 
dreadful  charge  upon  me  ! ” 

Mr.  Brass  rejoined  that  it  would  have 
been  well  for  the  prisoner  if  he  had 
thought  of  that  before,  and  was  about 
to  make  some  other  gloomy  observa- 
tions when  the  voice  of  the  single  gen- 
tleman was  heard,  demanding  from 
above  stairs  what  was  the  matter,  and 
what  was  the  cause  of  all  that  noise  and 
hurry.  Kit  made  an  involuntary  start 
towards  the  door,  in  his  anxiety  to  an- 
swer for  himself,  but,  being  speedily 
detained  by  the  constable,  had  the 
agony  of  seeing  Sampson  Brass  run 
out  alone  to  tell  the  story  in  his  own 
way. 

“ And  he  can  hardly  believe  it,  ei- 
ther,” said  Sampson,  when  he  returned, 
“nor  nobody  will.  I wish  I could 
doubt  the  evidence  of  my  senses,  but 
their  depositions  are  unimpeachable. 
It ’s  of  no  use  cross-examining  my  eyes,” 
cried  Sampson,  winking  and  rubbing 
them  : “ they  stick  to  their  first  account, 
and  will.  Now,  Sarah,  I hear  the 
coach  in  the  Marks  ; get  on  your  bon- 
net, and  we  ’ll  be  off.  A sad  errand ! 
a moral  funeral,  quite  ! ” 

“Mr.  Brass,”  said  Kit,  “do  me  one 
favor.  Take  me  to  Mr.  Witherden’s, 
first.” 

Sampson  shook  his  head  irresolutely. 

“Do,”  said  Kit.  “My  master’s 
there.  For  Heaven’s  sake,  take  me 
there,  first.” 


17 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


258 

“Well,  I don’t  know,”  stammered 
Brass,  who  perhaps  had  his  reasons  for 
wishing  to  show  as  fair  as  possible  in 
the  eyes  of  the  notary.  “ How  do  we 
stand  in  point  of  time,  constable,  eh?” 

The  constable,  who  had  been  chew- 
ing a straw  all  this  while  with  great 
philosophy,  replied  that  if  they  went 
away  at  once  they  would  have  time 
enough,  but  that  if  they  stood  shilly- 
shallying there,  any  longer,  they  must 
go  straight  to  the  Mansion  House ; 
and  finally  expressed  his  opinion  that 
that  was  where  it  was,  and  that  was  all 
about  it. . 

Mr.  Richard  Swiveller  having  arrived 
inside  the  coach,  and  still  remaining 
immovable  in  the  most  commodious 
corner,  with  his  face  to  the  horses,  Mr. 
Brass  instructed  the  officer  to  remove 
his  prisoner,  and  declared  himself  quite 
ready.  Therefore,  the  constable,  still 
holding  Kit  in  the  same  manner,  and 
pushing  him  on  a little  before  him,  so 
as  to  keep  him  at  about  three  quarters 
of  an  arm’s  length  in  advance  (which  is 
the  professional  mode),  thrust  him  into 
the  vehicle  and  followed  himself.  Miss 
Sally  entered  next ; and  there  being 
now  four  inside,  Sampson  Brass  got  up- 
on the  box,  and  made  the  coachman 
drive  on. 

Still  completely  stunned  by  the  sud- 
den and  terrible  change  which  had  taken 
place  in  his  affairs,  Kit  sat  gazing  out 
of  the  coach  window,  almost  hoping  to 
see  some  monstrous  phenomenon  in 
the  streets  which  might  give  him  reason 
to  believe  he  was  in  a dream.  Alar, ! 
Everything  was  too  real  and  familiar : 
the  same  succession  of  turnings,  the 
same  houses,  the  same  streams  of  peo- 
ple running  side  by  side  in  different  di- 
rections upon  the  pavement,  the  same 
bustle  of  carts  and  carriages  in  the 
road,  the  same  well-remembered  objects 
in  the  shop  windows : a regularity  in 
the  very  noise  and  hurry  which  no 
dream  ever  mirrored.  Dream-like  as 
the  story  was,  it  was  true.  He  stood 
charged  with  robbery ; the  note  had 
been  found  upon  him,  though  he  was 
innocent  in  thought  and  deed ; and 
they  were  carrying  him  back  a pris- 
oner. 

Absorbed  in  these  painful  ruminations. 


thinking  with  a drooping  heart  of  his 
mother  and  little  Jacob,  feeling  as 
though  even  the  consciousness  of  inno- 
cence would  be  insufficient  to  support 
him  in  the  presence  of  his  friends  if  they 
believed  him  guilty,  and  sinking  in 
hope  and  courage  more  and  more  as 
they  drew  nearer  to  the  notary’s,  poor 
Kit  was  looking  earnestly  out  of  the 
window,  observant  of  nothing,  — when 
all  at  once,  as  though  it  had  been  con- 
jured up  by  magic,  he  became  aware  of 
the  face  of  Quilp. 

And  what  a leer  there  was  upon  the 
face  ! It  was  from  the  open  window  of 
a tavern  that  it  looked  out ; and  the 
dwarf  had  so  spread  himself  over  it, 
with  his  elbows  on  the  window-sill  and 
his  head  resting  on  both  his  hands, 
that,  what  between  this  attitude  and  his 
being  swollen  with  suppressed  laughter, 
he  looked  puffed  and  bloated  into  twice 
his  usual  breadth.  Mr.  Brass,  on  rec- 
ognizing him,  immediately  stopped  the 
coach.  As  it  came  to  a halt  directly 
opposite  to  where  he  stood,  the  dwarf 
pulled  off  his  hat,  and  saluted  the  party 
with  a hideous  and  grotesque  polite- 
ness. 

“Aha!”  he  cried.  “Where  now, 
Brass?  where  now?  Sally  with  you  too? 
Sweet  Sally ! And  Dick  ? Pleasant 
Dick!  And  Kit?  Honest  Kit!” 

“He’s  extremely  cheerful!”  said 
Brass  to  the  coachman.  “Very  much 
so!  Ah,  sir,  a sad  business!  Never 
believe  in  honesty  any  more,  sir.” 

“Why  not?”  returned  the  dwarf. 
“Why  not,  you  rogue  of  a lawyer,  why 
not  ? ” 

“ Bank-note  lost  in  our  office,  sir,” 
said  Brass,  shaking  his  head.  “ Found 
in  his  hat,  sir,  he  previously  left  alone 
there.  No  mistake  at  all,  sir;  chain  of 
evidence  complete,  — not  a link  want- 
ing.” 

“ What ! ” cried  the  dwarf,  leaning 
half  his  body  out  of  the  window,  “ Kit 
a thief!  Kit  a thief!  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Why,  he’s  an  uglier-looking  thief  than 
can  be  seen  anywhere  for  a penny.  Eh, 
Kit,  eh  ? Ha,  ha,  ha ! Have  you  ta- 
ken Kit  into  custody  before  he  had 
time  and  opportunity  to  beat  me  ! Eh, 
Kit,  eh?”  And  with  that  he  burst 
into  a yell  of  laughter,  manifestly  to 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


259 


the  great  terror  of  the  coachman,  and 
pointed  to  a dyer’s  pole  hard  by,  where 
a dangling  suit  of  clothes  bore  some 
resemblance  to  a man  upon  a gibbet. 

“Is  it  coming  to  that,  Kit?”  cried 
the  dwarf,  rubbing  his  hands  violently. 
“ Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! What  a disappoint- 
ment for  little  Jacob,  and  for  his  darling 
mother ! Let  him  have  the  Bethel 
minister  to  comfort  and  console  him, 
Brass.  Eh,  Kit,  eh  ? Drive  on,  coachey, 
drive  on.  By  by,  Kit ; all  good  go  with 
you  ; keep  up  your  spirits  ; my  love  to 
the  Garlands,  — the  dear  old  lady  and 
gentleman.  Say  I inquired  after  ’em, 
will  you  ? Blessings  on  ’em,  and  on 
you,  and  on  everybody,  Kit.  Blessings 
on  all  the  world  ! ” 

With  such  good  wishes  and  farewells, 
poured  out  in  a rapid  torrent  until  they 
were  out  of  hearing,  Quilp  suffered 
them  to  depart,  and  when  he  could  see 
the  coach  no  longer,  drew  in  his  head, 
and  rolled  upon  the  ground  in  an  ec- 
stasy of  enjoyment. 

When  they  reached  the  notary’s,  which 
they  were  not  long  in  doing,  for  they 
had  encountered  the  dwarf  in  a by- 
street at  a very  little  distance  from  the 
house,  Mr.  Brass  dismounted ; and, 
opening  the  coach  door  with  a melan- 
choly visage,  requested  his  sister  to  ac- 
company him  into  the  office,  with  the 
view  of  preparing  the  good  people  with- 
in for  the  mournful  intelligence  that 
awaited  them.  Miss  Sally  complying, 
he  desired  Mr.  Swiveller  to  accompany 
them.  So  into  the  office  they  went ; 
Mr.  Sampson  and  his  sister  arm-in-arm  ; 
and  Mr.  Swiveller  following,  alone. 

The  notary  was  standing  before  the 
fire  in  the  outer  office,  talking  to  Mr. 
Abel  and  the  elder  Mr.  Garland,  while 
Mr.  Chuckster  sat  writing  at  the  desk, 
picking  up  such  crumbs  of  their  con- 
versation as  happened  to  fall  in  his  way. 
This  posture  of  affairs  Mr.  Brass  ob- 
served through  the  glass  door  as  he  was 
turning  the  handle,  and,  seeing  that  the 
notary  recognized  him,  he  began  to 
shake  his  head  and  sigh  deeply  while 
that  partition  yet  divided  them. 

“ Sir,”  said  Sampson,  taking  off  his 
hat,  and  kissing  the  two  forefingers  of 
his  right-hand  beaver  glove,  “ my  name 
is  Brass,  — Brass  of  Bevis  Marks,  sir. 


I have  had  the  honor  and  pleasure,  sir, 
of  being  concerned  against  you  in  some 
little  testamentary  matters.  How  do 
you  do,  sir  ? ” 

“My  clerk  will  attend  to  any  business 
you  may  have  come  upon,  Mr.  Brass,” 
said  the  notary,  turning  away. 

“Thank  you,  sir,”  said  Brass,  “thank 
you,  I am  sure.  Allow  me,  sir,  to  in- 
troduce my  sister — quite  one  of  us,  sir, 
although  of  the  weaker  sex  — of  great 
use  in  my  business,  sir,  I assure  you. 
Mr.  Richard,  sir,  have  the  goodness  to 
come  forward,  if  you  please  — No,  real- 
ly,” said  Brass,  stepping  between  the 
notary  and  his  private  office  (towards 
which  he  had  begun  to  retreat),  and 
speaking  in  the  tone  of  an  injured  man, 
“ really,  sir,  I must,  under  favor,  request 
a word  or  two  with  you,  indeed.” 

“ Mr.  Brass,”  said  the  other,  in  a de- 
cided tone,  “ I am  engaged.  You  see 
that  I am  occupied  with  these  gentle- 
men. If  you  will  communicate  your 
business  to  Mr.  Chuckster  yonder,  you 
will  receive  every  attention.” 

# “Gentlemen,”  said  Brass,  laying  his 
right  hand  on  his  waistcoat,  and  look- 
ing towards  the  father  and  son  with  a 
smooth  smile,  — “gentlemen,  I appeal 
to  you, — really,  gentlemen,  — consider, 
I beg  of  you.  I am  of  the  law.  I am 
styled  ‘ gentleman  ’ by  act  of  Parlia- 
ment. I maintain  the  title  by  the  an- 
nual payment  of  twelve  pounds  sterling 
for  a certificate.  I am  not  one  of  your 
players  of  music,  stage  actors,  writers  of 
books,  or  painters  of  pictures,  who  as- 
sume a station  that  the  laws  of  their 
country  don’t  recognize.  I am  none  of 
your  strollers  or  vagabonds.  If  any 
man  brings  his  action  against  me,  he 
must  describe  me  as  a gentleman,  or 
his  action  is  null  and  void.  I appeal  to 
you,  — is  this  quite  respectful  ? Really, 
gentlemen  — ” 

“ Well,  will  you  have  the  goodness  to 
state  your  business  then,  Mr.  Brass?” 
said  the  notary. 

“Sir,”  rejoined  Brass,  “ I will.  Ah, 
Mr.  Witherden  ! you  little  know  the  — 
but  I will  not  be  tempted  to  travel  from 
the  point,  sir.  I believe  the  name  of 
one  of  these  gentlemen  is  Garland.”. 

“ Of  both,”  said  the  notary. 

“ In-deed  ! ” rejoined  Brass,  cringing 


26o 


THE  OLL  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


excessively.  “ But  I might  have  known 
that  from  the  uncommon  likeness. 
Extremely  happy,  I am  sure,  to  have 
the  honor  of  an  introduction  to  two  such 
gentlemen,  although  the  occasion  is  a 
most  painful  one.  One  of  you  gentle- 
men has  a servant  called  Kit?  ” 

“ Both,”  replied  the  notary. 

“ Two  Kits  ? ” said  Brass,  smiling. 
“ De^r  me  !” 

“ One  Kit,  sir,”  returned  Mr.  With- 
erden,  angrily,  “ who  is  employed  by 
both  gentlemen.  What  of  him  ? ” 

“ This  of  him,  sir,”  rejoined  Brass, 
dropping  his  voice  impressively.  “ That 
oung  man,  sir,  that  I have  felt  un- 
ounded  and  unlimited  confidence  in, 
and  always  behaved  to  as  if  he  was 
my  ecpial,  — that  young  man  has  this 
morning  committed  a robbery  in  my 
office,  and  been  taken  almost  in  the 
fact.” 

“This  must  be  some  falsehood!” 
cried  the  notary. 

“ It  is  not  possible,”  said  Mr.  Abel. 

“ I ’ll  not  believe  one  word  of  it,” 
exclaimed  the  old  gentleman. 

Mr.  Brass  looked  mildly  round  upon 
them,  and  rejoined  : — 

“ Mr.  Witherden,  sir,  your  words  are 
actionable,  and  if  I was  a man  of  low 
and  mean  standing,  who  could  n’t  afford 
to  be  slandered,  I should  proceed  for 
damages.  Hows’ ever,  sir,  being  what 
I am,  I merely  scorn  such  expressions. 
The  honest  warmth  of  the  other  gentle- 
man I respect,  and  I ’m  truly  sorry  to 
be  the  messenger  of  such  unpleasant 
news.  I shouldn’t  have  put  myself  in 
this  painful  position,  I assure  you,  but 
that  the  lad  himself  desired  to  be  brought 
here  in  the  first  instance,  and  I yielded 
to  his  prayers.  Mr.  Chuckster,  sir,  will 
you  have  the  goodness  to  tap  at  the 
window  for  the  constable  that ’s  waiting 
in  the  coach  ? ” 

The  three  gentlemen  looked  at  each 
other  with  blank  faces  when  these  words 
were  uttered,  and  Mr.  Chuckster,  doing 
as  he  was  desired,  and  leaping  off  his 
stool  with  something  of  the  excitement 
of  an  inspired  prophet  whose  foretellings 
had  in  the  fulness  of  time  been  realized, 
held  the  door  open  for  the  entrance  of 
the  wretched  captive. 

Such  a scene  as  there  was,  when  Kit 


came  in,  and,  bursting  into  the  rude 
eloquence  with  which  Truth  at  length 
inspired  him,  called  Heaven  to  witness 
that  he  was  innocent,  and  that  how  the 
property  came  to  be  found  upon  him  he 
knew  not ! Such  a confusion  of  tongues, 
before  the  circumstances  were  related, 
and  the  proofs  disclosed  ! Such  a dead 
silence  when  all  was  told,  and  his  three 
friends  exchanged  looks  of  doubt  and 
amazement ! 

“ Is  it  not  possible,”  said  Mr.  With- 
erden, after  a long  pause,  “that  this 
note  may  have  found  its  way  into  the 
hat  by  some  accident,  — such*as  the  re- 
moval of  papers  on  the  desk,  for  in- 
stance ? ” 

But  this  was  clearly  shown  to  be 
quite  impossible.  Mr.  Swiveller,  though 
an  unwilling  witness,  could  not  help 
proving  to  demonstration,  from  the  posi- 
tion in  which  it  was  found,  that  it  must 
have  been  designedly  secreted. 

“It’s  very  distressing,”  said  Brass, 
— “ immensely  distressing,  I am  sure. 
When  he  comes  to  be  tried,  I shall  be 
very  happy  to  recommend  him  to  mer- 
cy on  account  of  his  previous  good  char- 
acter. I did  lose  money  before,  cer- 
tainly, but  it  does  n’t  quite  follow  that 
he  took  it.  The  presumption ’s  against 
him,  — strongly  against  him,  — but  we 
’re  Christians,  I hope?” 

“ I suppose,”  said  the  constable, 
looking  round,  “that  no  gentleman 
here  can  give  evidence  as  to  whether 
he ’s  been  flush  of  money  of  late.  Do 
you  happen  to  know,  sir?” 

“ He  has  had  money  from  time  to 
time,  certainly,”  returned  Mr.  Garland, 
to  whom  the  man  had  put  the  question. 
“ But  that,  as  he  always  told  me,  was 
given  him  by  Mr.  Brass  himself.” 

“ Yes,  to  be  sure,”  said  Kit,  eagerly. 
“You  can  bear  me  out  in  that,  sir?” 

“Eh?”  cried  Brass,  looking  from 
face  to  face  with  an  expression  of  stupid 
amazement. 

“ The  money,  you  know,  the  half- 
crowns  that  you  gave  me  — from  the 
lodger,”  said  Kit. 

“ O dear  me  ! ” cried  Brass,  shaking 
his  head  and  frowning  heavily.  “This 
is  a bad  case,  I find  I a very  bad  case 
indeed.” 

“ What ! Did  you  give  him  no  mon- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


ey  on  account  of  anybody,  sir?  ” asked 
Mr.  Garland,  with  great  anxiety. 

“/  give  him  money,  sir  ! ” returned 
Sampson.  “O  come,  you  know  this  is 
too  barefaced.  Constable,  my  good 
fellow,  we  had  better  be  going.” 

“What!”  shrieked  Kit.  “Does  he 
deny  that  he  did  ? Ask  him,  somebody, 
pray.  Ask  him  to  tell  you  whether  he 
did  or  not ! ” 

“Did  you,  sir?”  asked  the  notary. 

“I  tell  you  what,  gentlemen,”  replied 
Brass,  in  a very  grave  manner,  “ he  ’ll 
not  serve  his  case  this  way,  and  really, 
if  you  feel  any  interest  in  him,  you  had 
better  advise  him  to  go  upon  some 
other  tack.  Did  I,  sir?  Of  course  I 
never  did.” 

“ Gentlemen,”  cried  Kit,  on  whom  a 
light  broke  suddenly,  “master,  Mr. 
Abel,  Mr.  Witherden,  everyone  of  you, 
— he  did  it!  What  I have  done  to 
offend  him,  I don’t  know,  but  this  is  a 
plot  to  ruin  me.  Mind,  gentlemen,  it ’s 
a plot,  and  whatever  comes  of  it,  I will 
say,  with  my  dying  breath,  that  he  put 
that  note  in  my  hat  himself!  Look  at 
him,  gentlemen  ! See  how  he  changes 
color.  Which  of  us  looks  the  guilty 
person, — he  or  I?” 

“You  hear  him,  gentlemen?”  said 
Brass,  smiling,  “you  hear  him.  Now, 
does  this  case  strike  you  as  assuming 
rather  a black  complexion,  or  does  it 
not?  Is  it  at  all  a treacherous  case, 
do  you  think,  or  is  it  one  of  mere  ordi- 
nary guilt?  Perhaps,  gentlemen,  if  he 
had  not  said  this  in  your  presence  and 
I had  reported  it,  you’d  have  held  this 
to  be  impossible,  likewise,  eh  ? ” 

With  such  pacific  and  bantering  re- 
marks did  Mr.  Brass  refute  the  foul  as- 
persion on  his  character  ; but  the  virtu- 
ous Sarah,  moved  by  stronger  feelings, 
and  having  at  heart,  perhaps,  a more 
jealous  regard  for  the  honor  of  her  fami- 
ly, flew  from  her  brother’s  side,  without 
any  previous  intimation  of  her  design, 
and  darted  at  the  prisoner  with  the  ut- 
most fury.  It  would  undoubtedly  have 
gone  hard  with  Kit’s  face,  but  that  the 
wary  constable,  foreseeing  her  design, 
drew  him  aside  at  the  critical  moment, 
and  thus  placed  Mr.  Chuckster  in  cir- 
cumstances of  some  jeopardy  ; for  that 
gentleman,  happening  to  be  next  the 


261 

object  of  Miss  Brass’s  wrath,  and  rage 
being,  like  love  and  fortune,  blind, 
was  pounced  upon  by  the  fair  enslaver, 
and  had  a false  collar  plucked  up  by 
the  roots,  and  his  hair  very  much  di- 
shevelled, before  the  exertions  of  the 
company  could  make  her  sensible  of 
her  mistake. 

The  constable,  taking  warning  by 
this  desperate  attack,  and  thinking  per- 
haps that  it  would  be  more  satisfactory 
to  the  ends  of  justice  if  the  prisoner  were 
taken  before  a magistrate  whole,  rather 
than  in  small  pieces,  led  him  back  to  the 
hackney-coach  without  more  ado,  and 
moreover  insisted  on  Miss  Brass  becom- 
ing an  outside  passenger ; to  which  pro- 
posal the  charming  creature,  after  a 
little  angry  discussion,  yielded  her  con- 
sent, and  so  took  her  brother  Samp- 
son’s place  upon  the  box;  Mr.  Brass 
with  some  reluctance  agreeing  to  oc- 
cupy her  seat  inside.  These  arrange- 
ments perfected,  they  drove  to  the  jus- 
tice-room with  all  speed,  followed  by 
the  notary  and  his  two  friends  in  an- 
other coach.  Mr.  Chuckster  alone  was 
left  behind,  — greatly  to  his  indignation  ; 
for  he  held  the  evidence  he  could  have 
given,  relative  to  Kit’s  returning  to 
work  out  the  shilling,  to  be  so  very 
material  as  bearing  upon  his  hypocriti- 
cal and  designing  character,  that  he 
considered  its  suppression  little  better 
than  a compromise  of  felony. 

At  the  justice-room  they  found  the 
single  gentleman,  who  had  gone  straight 
there,  and  was  expecting  them  with 
desperate  impatience.  But  not  fifty 
single  gentlemen  rolled  into  one  could 
have  helped  poor  Kit,  who  in  half 
an  hour  afterwards  was  committed  for 
trial,  and  was  assured  by  a friendly 
officer  on  his  way  to  prison  that  there 
was  no  occasion  to  be  cast  down,  for 
the  sessions  would  soon  be  on,  and  he 
would,  in  all  likelihood,  get  his  little 
affair  disposed  of,  and  be  comfortably 
transported,  in  less  than  a fortnight. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

Let  moralists  and  philosophers  say 
what  they  may,  it  is  very  questionable 


26  2 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


■whether  a guilty  man  would  have  felt 
half  as  much  misery  that  night  as  Kit 
did,  being  innocent.  The  world,  being, 
in  the  constant  commission  of  vast 
quantities  of  injustice,  is  a little  too  apt 
to  comfort  itself  with  the  idea  that  if 
the  victim  of  its  falsehood  and  malice 
have  a clear  conscience,  he  cannot  fail 
to  be  sustained  under  his  trials,  and 
somehow  or  other  to  come  right  at 
last;  “in  which  case,”  say  they  who 
have  hunted  him  down,  “ though  we 
certainly  don’t  expect  it,  nobody  will 
be  better  pleased  than  we.”  Whereas, 
the  world  would  do  well  to  reflect,  that 
injustice  is  in  itself,  to  every  generous 
and  properly  constituted  mind,  an  in- 
jury, of  all  others  the  most  insufferable, 
the  most  torturing,  and  the  most  hard 
to  bear  ; and  that  many  clear  conscien- 
ces have  gone  to  their  account  elsewhere, 
and  many  sound  hearts  have  broken, 
because  of  this  very  reason  ; the  knowl- 
edge of  their  own  deserts  only  aggravat- 
ing their  sufferings,  and  rendering  them 
the  less  endurable. 

The  world,  however,  was  not  in  fault 
in  Kit’s  case.  But  Kit  was  innocent ; 
and  knowing  this,  and  feeling  that  his 
best  friends  deemed  him  guilty, — that 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garland  would  look  upon 
him  as  a monster  of  ingratitude,  — that 
Barbara  would  associate  him  with  all 
that  was  bad  and  criminal,  — that  the 
pony  would  consider  himself  forsaken, 
— and  that  even  his  own  mother  might 
perhaps  yield  to  the  strong  appearances 
against  him,  and  believe  him  to  be  the 
wretch  he  seemed,  — knowing  and  feel- 
ing all  this,  he  experienced,  at  first, 
an  agony  of  mind  which  no  words  can 
describe,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
little  cell  in  which  he  was  locked  up  for 
the  night,  almost  beside  himself  with 
grief. 

Even  when  the  violence  of  these 
emotions  had  in  some  degree  subsided, 
and  he  was  beginning  to  grow  more 
calm,  there  came  into  his  mind  a new 
thought,  the  anguish  of  which  was 
scarcely  less.  The  child, — the  bright 
star  of  the  simple  fellow’s  life,  — she 
who  always  came  back  upon  him  like 
a beautiful  dream,  — who  had  made  the 
poorest  part  of  his  existence  the  hap- 
piest and  best,  — who  had  ever  been  so 


gentle  and  considerate  and  good,  — if 
she  were  ever  to  hear  of  this,  what  would 
she  think  ! As  this  idea  occurred  to 
him,  the  walls  of  the  prison  seemed  to 
melt  away,  and  the  old  place  to  reveal 
itself  in  their  stead,  as  it  was  wont  to 
be  on  winter  nights,  — the  fireside,  the 
little  supper-table,  the  old  man’s  hat 
and  coat  and  stick,  the  half-opened 
door,  leading  to  her  little  room,  — they 
were  all  there.  And  Nell  herself  was 
there,  and  he,  — both  laughing  heartily 
as  they  had  often  done  ; and  when  he 
had  got  as  far  as  this,  Kit  could  go  no 
further,  but  flung  himself  upon  his  poor 
bedstead  and  wept. 

It  was  a long  night,  which  seemed  as 
though  it  would  have  no  end ; but  he 
slept  too,  and  dreamed,  — always  of  be- 
ing at  liberty,  and  roving  about,  now 
with  one  person  and  now  with  another, 
but  ever  with  a vague  dread  of  being 
recalled  to  prison  ; not  that  prison,  but 
one  which  was  in  itself  a dim  idea,  — 
not  of  a place,  but  of  a care  and  sor- 
row ; of  something  oppressive  and  al- 
ways present,  and  yet  impossible  to  de- 
fine. At  last  the  morning  dawned,  and 
there  was  the  jail  itself,  — cold,  black, 
and  dreary,  and  very  real  indeed. 

He  was  left  to  himself,  however,  and 
there  was  comfort  in  that.  He  had 
liberty  to  walk  in  a small  paved  yard 
at  a certain  hour,  and  learned  from  the 
turnkey  who  came  to  unlock  his  cell 
and  show  him  where  to  wash,  that 
there  was  a regular  time  for  visiting, 
every  day,  and  that  if  any  of  his  friends 
came  to  see  him,  he  would  be  fetched 
down  to  the  grate.  When  he  had  given 
him  this  information,  and  a tin  porrin- 
ger containing  his  breakfast,  the  man 
locked  him  up  again,  and  went  clattering 
along  the  stone  passage,  opening  and 
shutting  a great  many  other  doors,  and 
raising  numberless  loud  echoes,  which 
resounded  through  the  building  for  a 
long  time,  as  if  they  were  in  prison  too, 
and  unable  to  get  out. 

This  turnkey  had  given  him  to  un- 
derstand that  he  was  lodged,  like  some 
few  others  in  the  jail,  apart  from  the 
mass  of  prisoners,  because  he  was  not 
supposed  to  be  utterly  depraved  and 
irreclaimable,  and  had  never  occupied 
apartments  in  that  mansion  before. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 263 


Kit  was  thankful  for  this  indulgence, 
and  sat  reading  the  church  catechism 
very  attentively  (though  he  had  known 
it  by  heart  from  a little  child),  until  he 
heard  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  the  man 
entered  again. 

“ Now  then,”  he  said,  “ come  on  ! ” 

“ Where  to,  sir  ? ” asked  Kit. 

The  man  contented  himself  by  briefly 
replying,  “Wisitors”;  and,  taking  him 
by  the  arm  in  exactly  the  same  manner 
as  the  constable  had  done  the  day  be- 
fore, led  him,  through  several  winding 
ways  and  strong  gates,  into  a passage, 
where  he  placed  him  at  a grating  and 
turned  upon  his  heel.  Beyond  this 
grating,  at  the  distance  of  about  four  or 
five  feet,  was  another,  exactly  like  it. 
In  the  space  between  sat  a turnkey, 
reading  a newspaper  ; and  outside  the 
farther  railing,  Kit  saw,  with  a palpitat- 
ing heart,  his  mother  with  the  baby  in 
her  arms  ;*  Barbara’s  mother  with  her 
never-failing  umbrella ; and  poor  little 
Jacob,  staring  in  with  all  his  might,  as 
though  he  were  looking  for  the  bird,  or 
the  wild  beast,  and  thought  the  men 
were  mere  accidents  with  whom  the 
bars  could  have  no  possible  concern. 

But  when  little  Jacob  saw  his  broth- 
er, and,  thrusting  his  arms  between  the 
rails  to  hug  him,  found  that  he  came  no 
nearer,  but  still  stood  afar  off  with  his 
head  resting  on  the  arm  by  which 
he  held  to  one  of  the  bars,  he  began 
to  cry  most  piteously  ; whereupon,  Kit’s 
mother  and  Barbara’s  mother,  who  had 
restrained  themselves  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, burst  out  sobbing  arid  weeping 
afresh.  Poor  Kit  could  not  help  join- 
ing them,  and  not  one  of  them  could 
speak  a word. 

During  this  melancholy  pause,  the 
turnkey  read  his  newspaper  with  a wag- 
gish look  (he  had  evidently  got  among 
the  facetious  paragraphs)  until,  happen- 
ing to  take  his  eyes  off  it  for  an  instant, 
as  if  to  get  by  dint  of  contemplation  at 
the  very  marrow  of  some  joke  of  a 
deeper  sort  than  the  rest,  it  appeared 
to  occur  to  him,  for  the  first  time,  that 
somebody  was  crying. 

“ Now',  ladies,  ladies,”  he  said,  look- 
ing round  w'ith  surprise,  “I’d  advise  you 
rot  to  waste  time  like  this.  It ’s  al- 
lowanced here,  you  know.  You  mustn’t 


let  that  child  make  that  noise,  either. 
It ’s  against  all  rules.” 

“ I ’m  his  poor  mother,  sir,”  sobbed 
Mrs.  Nubbles,  courtesying  humbly, 
“and  this  is  his  brother,  sir.  O dear 
me,  dear  me  ! ” 

“Well  !”  replied  the  turnkey,  fold- 
ing his  paper  on  his  knee,  so  as  to  get 
with  greater  convenience  at  the  top  of 
the  next  column.  “ It  can’t  be  helped, 
you  know.  He  ain’t  the  only  one  in 
the  same  fix.  You  mustn’t  make  a 
noise  about  it ! ” 

With  that  he  went  on  reading.  The 
man  was  not  naturally  cruel  or  hard- 
hearted. He  had  come  to  look  upon 
felony  as  a kind  of  disorder,  like  the 
scarlet  fever  or  erysipelas  : some  people 
had  it,  some  hadn’t,  just  as  it  might 
be. 

“ O my  darling  Kit,”  said  his  moth- 
er, whom  Barbara’s  mother  had  chari- 
tably relieved  of  the  baby,  “ that  I 
should  see  my  poor  boy  here  ! ” 

“ You  don’t  believe  I did  what  they 
accuse  me  of,  mother  dear?”  cried  Kit, 
in  a choking  voice. 

“ / believe  it ! ” exclaimed  the  poor 
woman,  — “ /,  that  never  knew  you  tell  a 
lie,  or  do  a bad  action  from  your  cradle  ! 
— that  have  never  had  a moment’s  sor- 
row on  your  account,  except  it  was  for 
the  poor  meals  that  you  have  taken 
with  such  good-humor  and  content  that 
I forgot  how  little  there  was  when  I 
thought  how  kind  and  thoughtful  you 
were,  though  you  w'ere  but  a child  ! — I 
believe  it  of  the  son  that ’s  been  a com- 
fort to  me  from  the  hour  of  his  birth  to 
this  time,  and  that  I never  laid  down 
one  night  in  anger  with  ! — I believe  it 
of  you,  Kit  — ” 

“ Why,  then,  thank  God  ! ” said  Kit, 
clutching  the  bars  with  an  earnestness 
that  shook  them;  “and  I can  bear  it, 
mother  ! Come  what  may,  I shall  al- 
ways have  one  drop)  of  happiness  in 
my  heart  when  I think  that  you  said 
that.” 

At  this,  the  poor  woman  fell  a crying 
again,  and  Barbara’s  mother  too.  And 
little  Jacob,  whose  disjointed  thoughts 
had  by  this  time  resolved  themselves 
into  a pretty  distinct  impression  that 
Kit  could  n’t  go  out  for  a walk  if  he 
wanted,  and  that  there  were  no  birds, 


264 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


lions,  tigers,  or  other  natural  curiosi- 
ties behind  those  bars,  — nothing,  in- 
deed, but  a caged  brother,  — added  his 
tears  to  theirs  with  as  little  noise  as 
possible. 

Kit’s  mother,  drying  her  eyes  (and 
moistening  them,  poor  soul,  more  than 
she  dried  them),  now  took  from  the 
ground  a small  basket,  and  submissive- 
ly addressed  herself  to  the  turnkey,  say- 
ing, would  he  please  to  listen  to  her  for 
a minute?  The  turnkey,  being  in  the 
very  crisis  and  passion  of  a joke,  mo- 
tioned to  her  with  his  hand  to  keep 
silent  one  minute  longer,  for  her  life. 
Nor  did  he  remove  his  hand  into  its 
former  posture,  but  kept  it  in  the  same 
warning  attitude  until  he  had  finished 
the  paragraph,  when  he  paused  for  a 
few  seconds,  with  a smile  upon  his  face, 
as  who  should  say,  “This  editor  is  a 
comical  blade,  — a funny  dog,”  and  then 
asked  her  what  she  wanted. 

“ I have  brought  him  a little  some- 
thing to  eat,”  said  the  good  woman. 
“ If  you  please,  sir,  might  he  have  it?” 

“ Yes,  he  may  have  it.  There ’s  no 
rule  against  that.  Give  it  to  me  when 
you  go,  and  I ’ll  take  care  he  has  it.” 

“ No,  but  if  you  please,  sir,  — don’t 
be  angry  with  me,  sir,  I am  his  moth- 
er, and  you  had  a mother  once,  — if  I 
might  only  see  him  eat  a little  bit,  I 
should  go  away  so  much  more  satisfied 
that  he  was  all  comfortable.” 

And  again  the  tears  of  Kit’s  mother 
burst  forth,  and  of  Barbara’s  mother, 
and  of  little  Jacob.  As  to  the  baby,  it 
was  crowing  and  laughing  with  all  its 
might,  — under  the  idea,  apparently, 
that  the  whole  scene  had  been  invented 
and  got  up  for  its  particular  satisfac- 
tion. 

The  turnkey  looked  as  if  he  thought 
the  request  a strange  one  and  rather  out 
of  the  common  way,  but  nevertheless 
he  laid  down  his  paper,  and,  coming 
round  to  where  Kit’s  mother  stood, 
took  the  basket  from  her,  and  after  in- 
specting its  contents,  handed  it  to  Kit, 
and  went  back  to  his  place.  It  may  be 
easily  conceived  that  the  prisoner  had 
no  great  appetite,  but  he  sat  down  on 
the  ground,  and  ate  as  hard  as  he  could, 
while,  at  every  morsel  he  put  into  his 
mouth,  his  mother  sobbed  and  wept 


afresh,  though  with  a softened  grief  that 
bespoke  the  satisfaction  the  sight  af- 
forded her. 

While  he  was  thus  engaged,  Kit 
made  some  anxious  inquiries  about  his 
employers,  and  whether  they  had  ex- 
pressed any  opinion  concerning  him ; 
but  all  he  could  learn  was,  that  Mr. 
Abel  had  himself  broken  the  intelli- 
gence to  his  mother,  with  great  kind- 
ness and  delicacy,  late  on  the  previous 
night,  but  had  himself  expressed  no 
opinion  of  his  innocence  or  guilt.  Kit 
was  on  the  point  of  mustering  courage 
to  ask  Barbara’s  mother  about  Barbara, 
when  the  turnkey  who  had  conducted 
him  reappeared,  a second  turnkey  ap- 
peared behind  his  visitors,  and  the 
third  turnkey  with  the  newspaper  cried, 
“Time’s  up!”  — adding  in  the  same 
breath,  “ Now  for  the  next  party  ! ” and 
then  plunging  deep  into  his  newspaper 
again.  Kit  was  taken  off  in  an  instant, 
with  a blessing  from  his  mother  and  a 
scream  from  little  Jacob  ringing  in  his 
ears.  As  he  was  crossing  the  next  yard 
with  the  basket  in  his  hand,  under  the 
guidance  of  his  former  conductor,  an- 
other officer  called  to  them  to  stoj>,  and 
came  up  with  a pint-pot  of  porter  in  his 
hand. 

“ This  is  Christopher  Nubbles,  isn’t 
it,  that  come  in  last  night  for  felony  ? ” 
said  the  man. 

His  comrade  replied  that  this  was  the 
chicken  in  question. 

“Then  here’s  your  beer,”  said  the 
other  man  to  Christopher.  “ What  are 
you  lookirfg  at?  There  ain’t  a dis- 
charge in  it.” 

“ I beg  your  pardon,”  said  Kit. 
“ Who  sent  it  me  ? ” 

“ Why,  your  friend,”  replied  the  man. 
“You  ’re  to  have  it  every  day,  he  says. 
And  so  you  will,  if  he  pays  for  it.” 

“ My  friend  ! ” repeated  Kit. 

“You’re  all  abroad,  seemingly,”  re- 
turned the  other  man.  “ There ’s  his 
letter.  Take  hold  ! ” 

Kit  took  it,  and  when  he  was  locked 
up  again,  read  as  follows  : — 

“ Drink  of  this  cup.  You  ’ll  find 
there ’s  a spell  in  its  every  drop  ’gainst 
the  ills  of  mortality.  Talk  of  the  cordial 
that  sparkled  for  Helen  ! Her  cup  was 
a fiction,  but  this  is  reality  (Barclay  and 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


265 


Co.’s).  If  they  ever  send  it  in  a flat 
state,  complain  to  the  Governor.  Yours, 
R.  S.” 

“ R.  S.  ! ” said  Kit,  after  some  con- 
sideration. “It  must  be  Mr.  Richard 
Swiveller.  Well,  it’s  very  kind  of  him, 
and  I thank  him  heartily  ! ” 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

A faint  light,  twinkling  from  the 
window  of  the  counting-house  on  Quilp’s 
wharf,  and  looking  inflamed  and  red 
through  the  night  fog,  as  though  it  suf- 
fered from  it  like  an  eye,  forewarned 
Mr.  Sampson  Brass,  as  he  approached 
the  wooden  cabin  with  a cautious  step, 
that  the  excellent  proprietor,  his  es- 
teemed client,  was  inside,  and  probably 
waiting  with  his  accustomed  patience 
and  sweetness  of  temper  the  fulfilment 
of  the  appointment  which  now  brought 
Mr.  Brass  within  his  fair  domain. 

“ A treacherous  place  to  pick  one’s 
steps  in,  of  a dark  night,”  muttered 
Sampson,  as  he  stumbled  for  the  twen- 
tieth time  over  some  stray  lumber,  and 
limped  in  pain.  “ I believe  that  boy 
strews  the  ground  differently  every  day, 
on  purpose  to  bruise  and  maim  one  ; 
unless  his  master  does  it  with  his  own 
hands,  which  is  more  than  likely.  I 
hate  to  come  to  this  place  without  Sally. 
She ’s  more  protection  than  a dozen 
men.” 

As  he  paid  this  compliment  to  the 
merit  of  the  absent  charmer,  Mr.  Brass 
came  to  a halt,  looking  doubtfully  to- 
wards the  light,  and  over  his  shoulder. 

“ What ’s  he  about,  I wonder  ? ” mur- 
mured the  lawyer,  standing  on  tiptoe 
and  endeavoring  to  obtain  a glimpse  of 
what  was  passing  inside,  which  at  that 
distance  was  impossible.  “Drinking,  I 
suppose,  — making  himself  more  fiery 
and  furious,  and  heating  his  malice  and 
mischievousness  till  they  boil.  I ’m  al- 
ways afraid  to  come  here  by  myself, 
when  his  account ’s  a pretty  large  one. 
I don’t  believe  he ’d  rnind  throttling 
me,  and  dropping  me  softly  into  the 
river,  when  the  tide  was  at  its  strongest, 
any  more  than  he ’d  mind  killing  a 
rat,  — indeed  I don’t  know  whether  he 


would  n’t  consider  it  a pleasant  joke. 
Hark  ! Now  he ’s  singing  ! ” • 

Mr.  Quilp  was  certainly  entertaining 
himself  with  vocal  exercise,  but  it  was 
rather  a kind  of  chant  than  a song  ; be- 
ing a monotonous  repetition  of  one  sen- 
tence in  a very  rapid  manner,  with  a 
long  stress  upon  the  last  word,  which  he 
swelled  into  a dismal  roar.  Nor  did 
the  burden  of  this  performance  bear 
any  reference  to  love,  or  war,  or  wine, 
or  loyalty,  or  any  other,  the  standard 
topics  of  song,  but  to  a subject  not 
often  set  to  music,  or  generally  known 
in  ballads ; the  words  being  these  : 
“ The  worthy  magistrate,  after  remark- 
ing that  the  prisoner  would  find  some 
difficulty  in  persuading  a jury  to  believe 
his  tale,  committed  him  to  take  his  trial 
at  the  approaching  sessions ; and  di- 
rected the  customary  recognizances  to 
be  entered  into  for  the  pros-e-cution.” 

Every  time  he  came  to  this  con- 
cluding word,  and  had  exhausted  all 
possible  stress  upon  it,  Quilp  burst 
into  a shriek  of  laughter,  and  began 
again. 

“He’s  dreadfully  imprudent,”  mut- 
tered Brass,  after  he  had  listened  to 
two  or  three  repetitions  of  the  chant. 
“ Horribly  imprudent.  I wish  he  was 
dumb.  I wish  he  was  deaf.  I wish  he 
was  blind.  Hang  him,”  cried  Brass,  as 
the  chant  began  again.  “I  wish  he  was 
dead  ! ” 

Giving  utterance  to  these  friendly  as- 
pirations in  behalf  of  his  client,  Mr. 
Sampson  composed  his  face  into  its 
usual  state  of  smoothness,  and,  waiting 
until  the  shriek  came  again  and  was  dy- 
ing away,  went  up  to  the  wooden  house 
and  knocked  at  the  door. 

“ Come  in  ! ” cried  the  dwarf. 

“ How  do  you  do  to-night,  sir?  ” said 
Sampson,  peeping  in.  “ Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
How  do  you  do,  sir?  O dear  me,  how 
very  whimsical  ! Amazingly  whimsical, 
to  be  sure  ! ” 

“Come  in,  you  fool  !”  returned  the 
dwarf,  “ and  don’t  stand  there  shaking 
your  head  and  showing  your  teeth. 
Come  in,  you  false  witness,  you  per- 
jurer, you  suborner  of  evidence;  come 
in  ! ” 

“ He  has  the  richest  humor ! ” cried 
Brass,  shutting  the  door  behind  him  ; 


266 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“ the  most  amazing  vein  of  comicality  ! 
B»t  is  n’t  it  rather  injudicious,  sir — ” 

‘ ‘ What  ? ’ ’ demanded  Quilp.  ‘ ‘ What, 
Judas  ? ” 

“ Judas  ! ” cried  Brass.  “ He  has 
such  extraordinary  spirits  ! His  humor 
is  so  extremely  playful  ! Judas  ! O yes ; 
dear  me,  how  very  good  ! Ha,  ha, 
ha  ! ” 

All  this  time  Sampson  was  rubbing 
his  hands,  and  staring,  with  ludicrous 
surprise  and  dismay,  at  a great,  gog- 
gle-eyed, blunt-nosed  figure-head  of 
some  old  ship,  which  was  reared  up 
against  the  wall  in  a corner  near  the 
stove,  looking  like  a goblin  or  hideous 
idol  whom  the  dwarf  worshipped.  A 
mass  of  timber  on  its  head,  carved  into 
the  dim  and  distant  semblance  of  a 
cocked  hat,  together  with  a representa- 
tion of  a star  on  the  left  breast  and 
epaulets  on  the  shoulders,  denoted 
that  it  was  intended  for  the  effigy  of 
some  famous  admiral  ; but,  without 
those  helps,  any  observer  might  have 
supposed  it  the  authentic  portrait  of  a 
distinguished  merman  or  great  sea- 
monster.  Being  originally  much  too 
large  for  the  apartment  which  it  was 
now  employed  to  decorate,  it  had  been 
sawn  short  off  at  the  waist.  Even  in 
this  state  it  reached  from  floor  to  ceil- 
ing ; and  thrusting  itself  forward,  with 
that  excessively  wide-awake  aspect, 
and  air  of  somewhat  obtrusive  polite- 
ness, by  which  figure-heads  are  usually 
characterized,  seemed  to  reduce  every- 
thing else  to  mere  pygmy  proportions. 

“ Do  you  know  it?  ” said  the  dwarf, 
watching  Sampson’s  eyes.  “ Do  you 
see  the  likeness  ? ” 

“ Eh?  ” said  Brass,  holding  his  head 
on  one  side,  and  throwing  it  a little 
back,  as  connoisseurs  do.  “ Now  I 
look  at  it  again,  I fancy  I see  a — yes, 
there  certainly  is  something  in  the  smile 
that  reminds  me  of — and  yet,  upon  my 
word,  I — ” 

Now,  the  fact  was,  that  Sampson, 
having  never  seen  anything  in  the 
smallest  degree  resembling  this  sub- 
stantial phantom,  was  much  perplexed  ; 
being  uncertain  whether  Mr.  Quilp 
considered  it  like  himself,  and  had 
therefore  bought  it  for  a family  portrait  ; 
or  whether  he  was  pleased  to  consider 


it  as  the  likeness  of  some  enemy.  He 
was  not  very  long  in  doubt ; for,  while 
he  was  surveying  it  with  that  knowing 
look  which  people  assume  when  they 
are  contemplating  for  the  first  time  por- 
traits which  they  ought  to  recognize  but 
don’t,  the  dwarf  threw  down  the  news- 
paper from  which  he  had  been  chanting 
the  words  already  quoted,  and  seizing 
a rusty  iron  bar,  which  he  used  in  lieu 
of  poker,  dealt  the  figure  such  a stroke 
on  the  nose  that  it  rocked  again. 

_ “ Is  it  like  Kit  ? is  it  his  picture, 
his  image,  his  very  self?  ” cried  the 
dwarf,  aiming  a shower  of  blows  at  the 
insensible  countenance,  and  covering  it 
with  deep  dimples.  “Is  it  the  exact 
model  and  counterpart  of  the  dog,  — 
is  it,  — is  it,  — is  it  ? ” And  with  every 
repetition  of  the  question,  he  battered 
the  great  image,  until  the  perspiration 
streamed  down  his  face  with  the  vio- 
lence of  the  exercise. 

Although  this  might  have  been  a very 
comical  thing  to  look  at  from  a secure 
gallery,  as  a bull-fight  is  found  to  be  a 
comfortable  spectacle  by  those  who  are 
not  in  the  arena,  and  a house  on  fire  is 
better  than  a play  to  people  who  don’t 
live,  near  it,  there  was  something  in 
the  earnestness  of  Mr.  Quilp’s  manner 
which  made  his  legal  adviser  feel  that 
the  counting-house  was  a little  too  small, 
and  a deal  too  lonely,  for  the  complete 
enjoyment  of  these  humors.  There- 
fore, he  stood  as  far  off  as  he  could, 
while  the  dwarf  was  thus  engaged, 
whimpering  out  but  feeble  applause ; 
and  when  Quilp  left  off  and  sat  down 
again  from  pure  exhaustion,  approached 
with  more  obsequiousness  than  ever. 

“Excellent,  indeed!”  cried  Brass. 
“He,  he ! O,  very  good,  sir.  You 
know,”  said  Sampson,  looking  round  as 
if  in  appeal  to  the  bruised  admiral,  “he’s 
quite  a remarkable  man,  — quite  ! ” 

“Sit  down,”  said  the  dwarf.  “I 
bought  the  dog  yesterday.  I ’ve  been 
screwing  gimlets  into  him,  and  sticking 
forks  in  his  eyes,  and  cutting  my  name 
on  him.  .1  mean  to  burn  him  at  last.” 

“ Ha,  ha  ! ” cried  Brass.  “ Extreme- 
ly entertaining,  indeed ! ” 

“ Come  here  ! ” said  Quilp,  beckon- 
ing him  to  draw  near.  “ What ’s  inju- 
dicious, hey?  ” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 267 


“ Nothing,  sir,  nothing.  Scarcely 
worth  mentioning,  sir;  but  I thought 
that  song — admirably  humorous  in  it- 
self, you  know — was  perhaps  rather  — ” 

“ Yes,”  said  Quilp,  “ rather  what  ? ” 

“Just  bordering,  or,  as  one  may  say, 
remotely  verging,  upon  the  confines  of 
injudiciousness,  perhaps,  sir,”  returned 
Brass,  looking  timidly  at  the  dwarf’s 
cunning  eyes,  which  were  turned  to- 
wards the  fire  and  reflected  its  red 
light.  . . 

“Why?”  inquired  Quilp,  without 
looking  up. 

“ Why,  you  know,  sir,”  returned 
Brass,  venturing  to  be  more  familiar, 
“ the  fact  is,  sir,  that  any  allusion  to 
these  little  combinings  together  of 
friends,  for  objects  in  themselves  ex- 
tremely laudable,  but  which  the  law 
terms  conspiracies,  are  — you  take  me, 
sir  ? — best  kept  snug  and  among  friends, 
you  know.” 

“ Eh  ! ” said  Quilp,  looking  up  with 
a perfectly  vacant  countenance.  “ What 
do  you  mean  ? ” 

“ Cautious,  exceedinglycautious,  very 
right  and  proper  ! ” cried  Brass,  nod- 
ding his  head.  “ Mum,  sir,  even  here, 
— my  meaning,  sir,  exactly.” 

“ Your  meaning  exactly,  you  brazen 
scarecrow!  What’s  your  meaning?” 
retorted  Quilj).  “ Why  do  you  talk  to 
me  of  combining  together  ? Do  / com- 
bine ? Do  I know  anything  about  your 
combinings?  ” 

“No,  no,  sir,  certainly  not;  not  by 
any  means,”  returned  Brass. 

“ If  you  so  wink  and  nod  at  me,” 
said  the  dwarf,  looking  about  him  as  if 
for  his  poker,  “ I ’ll  spoil  the  expression 
of  your  monkey’s  face,  I will.” 

“ Don’t  put  yourself  out  of  the  way,  I 
beg,  sir,”  rejoined  Brass,  checking  him- 
self with  great  alacrity.  “ You  ’re  quite 
right,  sir,  quite  right.  I should  n’t  have 
mentioned  the  subject,  sir.  It ’s  much 
better  not  to.  You’re  quite  right,  sir. 
Let  us  change  it,  if  you  please.  You 
were  asking,  sir,  Sally  told  me,  about 
our  lodger.  He  has  not  returned, 
sir.” 

“No?”  said  Quilp,  heating  some 
rum  in  a little  saucepan,  and  watching 
it  to  prevent  its  boiling  over.  “ Why 
not  ? ” 


“Why,  sir,”  returned  Brass,  “he  — 
dear  me,  Mr.  Quilp,  sir — ” 

“What’s  the  matter?”  said  the 
dwarf,  stopping  his  hand  in  the  act  of 
carrying  the  saucepan  to  his  mouth. 

“You  have  forgotten  the  water,  sir,” 
said  Brass.  “And  — excuse  me,  sir  — 
but  it ’s  burning  hot.” 

Deigning  no  other  than  a practical 
answer  to  this  remonstrance,  Mr.  Quilp 
raised  the  hot  saucepan  to  his  lips,  and 
deliberately  drank  off  all  the  spirit  it 
contained,  which  might  have  been  in 
quantity  about  half  a pint,  and  had 
been  but  a moment  before,  when  he 
took  it  off  the  fire,  bubbling  and  hissing 
fiercely.  Having  swallowed  this  gentle 
stimulant,  and  shaken  his  fist  at  the  ad- 
miral, he  bade  Mr.  Brass  proceed. 

“But  first,”  said  Quilp,  with  his  ac- 
customed grin,  “have  a drop  yourself, 
— a nice  drop, — a good,  warm,  fiery 
drop.” 

“ Why,  sir,”  replied  Brass,  “ if  there 
was  such  a thing  as  a mouthful  of  water 
that  could  be  got  without  trouble  — ” 

“There’s  no  such  thing  to  be  had 
here,”  cried  the  dwarf.  “ Water  for 
lawyers  ! Melted  lead  and  brimstone, 
you  mean  ; nice  hot  .blistering  pitch  and 
tar,  — that ’s  the  thing  for  them,  — eh, 
Brass,  eh  ? ” 

“ Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ” laughed  Mr.  Brass. 
“ O,  very  biting  ! and  yet  it ’s  like  being 
tickled,  — there ’s  a pleasure  in  it,  too, 
sir  ! ” 

“ Drink  that,”  said  the  dwarf,  who 
had  by  this  time  heated  some  more. 
“Toss  it  off,  don’t  leave  any  heeltap, 
scorch  your  throat  and  be  happy  ! ” 

The  wretched  Sampson  took  a few 
short  sips  of  the  liquor,  which  immedi- 
ately distilled  itself  into  burning  tears, 
and  in  that  form  came  rolling  down  his 
cheeks  into  the  pipkin  again,  turning 
the  color  of  his  face  and  eyelids  to  a 
deep  red,  and  giving  rise  to  a violent 
fit  of  coughing,  in  the  midst  of  which 
he  was  still  heard  to  declare,  with  the 
constancy  of  a martyr,  that  it  was 
“ beautiful  indeed  ! ” While  he  was 
yet  in  unspeakable  agonies,  the  dwarf 
renewed  their  conversation. 

“The  lodger,”  said  Quilp,  — “what 
about  him?  ” 

“He  is  still,  sir,”  returned  Brass, 


268 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


with  intervals  of  coughing,  “stopping 
with  the  Garland  family.  He  has  only 
been  home  once,  sir,  since  the  day  of 
the  examination  of  that  culprit.  He  in- 
formed Mr.  Richard,  sir,  that  he  could  n’t 
bear  the  house  after  what  had  taken 
place  ; that  he  was  wretched  in  it;  and 
that  he  looked  upon  himself  as  being 
in  a certain  kind  of  way  the  cause  of  the 
occurrence.  — A very  excellent  lodger, 
sir.  I hope  we  may  not  lose  him.” 
“Yah!”  cried  the  dwarf.  “Never 
thinking  of  anybody  but  yourself.  Why 
don’t  you  retrench,  then,  — scrape  up, 
hoard,  economize,  eh  ? ” 

“ Why,  sir,”  replied  Brass,  “ upon  my 
word,  I think  Sarah’s  as  good  an  econo- 
mizer as  any  going.  I do  indeed,  Mr. 
Quilp.” 

“ Moisten  your  clay  ; wet  the  other 
eye  ; drink,  man  ! ” cried  the  dwarf. 
“You  took  a clerk  to  oblige  me.” 
“Delighted,  sir,  I am  sure,  at  any 
time,”  replied  Sampson.  “Yes,  sir,  I 
did.” 

“ Then,  now  you  may  discharge  him,” 
said  Quilp.  “ There ’s  a means  of  re- 
trenchment for  you  at  once.” 

“ Discharge  Mr.  Richard,  sir  ? ” cried 
Brass. 

“ Have  you  more  than  one  clerk,  you 
parrot,  that  you  ask  the  question  ? 
Yes.” 

“ Upon  my  word,  sir,”  said  Brass. 
“I  wasn’t  prepared  for  this  — ” 

“ How  could  you  be,”  sneered  the 
dwarf,  “when  / wasn’t?  How  often 
am  I to  tell  you  that  I brought  him  to 
you  that  I might  always  have  my  eye 
on  him  and  know  where  he  was,  and 
that  I had  a plot,  a scheme,  a little 
quiet  piece  of  enjoyment  afoot,  of  which 
the  very  cream  and  essence  was,  that 
this  old  man  and  grandchild  (who  have 
sunk  underground,  I think)  should  be, 
while  he  and  his  precious  friend  be- 
lieved them  rich,  in  reality  as  poor  as 
frozen  rats?” 

“I  quite  understood  that,  sir,”  re- 
joined Brass.  “Thoroughly.” 

“ Well,  sir,”  retorted  Quilp,  “and do 
you  understand  now,  that  they’re  not 
poor,  — that  they  can’t  be,  if  they  have 
such  men  as  your  lodger  searching  for 
them,  and  scouring  the  country  far  and 
wide.” 


“ Of  course  I do,  sir,”  said  Sampson. 
“ Of  course  you  do,”  retorted  the 
dwarf,  viciously  snapping  at  his  words. 
“ Of  course,  do  you  understand  then, 
that  it ’s  no  matter  what  comes  of  this 
fellow?  of  course,  do  you  understand 
that  for  any  other  purpose  he ’s  no  man 
for  me,  nor  for  you  ? ” 

“ I have  frequently  said  to  Sarah,  sir,” 
returned  Brass,  “that  he  was  of  no  use 
at  all  in  the  business.  You  can’t  put 
any  confidence  in  him,  sir.  If  you  ’ll 
believe  me,  I ’ve  found  that  fellow,  in 
the  commonest  little  matters  of  the 
office  that  have  been  trusted  to  him, 
blurting  out  the  truth,  though  expressly 
cautioned.  The  aggravation  of  that 
chap,  sir,  has  exceeded  anything  you  can 
imagine;  it  has,  indeed.  Nothing  but 
the  respect  and  obligation  I owe  to  you, 
sir  — ” 

As  it  was  plain  that  Sampson  was 
bent  on  a complimentary  harangue, 
unless  he  received  a timely  interruption, 
Mr.  Quilp  politely  tapped  him  on  the 
crown  of  his  head  with  the  little  sauce- 
pan and  requested  that  he  would  be 
so  obliging  as  to  hold  his  peace. 

“ Practical,  sir,  practical,”  said  Brass, 
rubbing  the  place  and  smiling;  “but  still 
extremely  pleasant,  — immensely  so  ! ” 

“ Hearken  to  me,  will  you  ? ” re- 
turned Quilp,  “ or  I ’ll  be  a little  more 
pleasant,  presently.  There ’s  no  chance 
of  his  comrade  and  friend  returning. 
The  scamp  has  been  obliged  to  fly,  as  I 
learn,  for  some  knavery,  and  has  found 
his  way  abroad.  Let  him  rot  there.” 

“ Certainly,  sir.  Quite  proper.  — 
Forcible  ! ” cried  Brass,  glancing  at  the 
admiral  again,  as  if  he  made  a third  in 
company.  “ Extremely  forcible  ! ” 

“ I hate  him,”  said  Quilp,  between 
his  teeth,  “ and  have  always  hated  him, 
for  family  reasons.  Besides,  he  was  an 
intractable  ruffian  ; otherwise  he  would 
have  been  of  use.  This  fellow  is  pig- 
eon-hearted, and  light-headed.  I don’t 
want  him  any  longer.  Let  him  hang  or 
drown  — starve  — go  to  the  devil.” 

“ By  all  means,  sir,”  returned  Brass. 
“ When  would  you  wish  him,  sir,  to — ha, 
ha  ! — to  make  that  little  excursion  ? ” 

“ When  this  trial ’s  over,”  said  Quilp. 
“As  soon  as  that’s  ended,  send  him 
about  his  business.” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


269 


“It  shall  be  done,  sir,”  returned 
Brass,  “by  all  means.  It  will  be 
rather  a blow  to  Sarah,  sir,  but  she 
has  all  her  feelings  under  control.  Ah, 
Mr.  Quilp,  I often  think,  sir,  if  it  had  on- 
ly pleased  Providence  to  bring  you  and 
Sarah  together,  in  earlier  life,  what 
blessed  results  would  have  flowed  from 
such  a union  ! You  never  saw  our 
dear  father,  sir?  — A charming  gentle- 
man. Sarah  was  his  pride  and  joy, 
sir.  He  would  have  closed  his  eyes 
in  bliss,  would  Foxey,  Mr.  Quilp,  if  he 
could  have  found  her  such  a partner. 
You  esteem  her,  sir?” 

“ I love  her,”  croaked  the  dwarf. 

“You’re  very  good,  sir,”  returned 
Brass,  “ I am  sure.  Is  there  any  oth- 
er order,  sir,  that  I can  take  a note  of, 
besides  this  little  matter  of  Mr.  Rich- 
ard ? ” 

“ None,”  replied  the  dwarf,  seizing  the 
saucepan.  “ Let  us  drink  the  lovely 
Sarah.” 

“ If  we  could  do  it  in  something,  sir, 
that  wasn’t  quite  boiling,”  suggested 
Brass,  humbly,  “ perhaps  it  would  be 
better.  I think  it  would  be  more  agree- 
able to  Sarah’s  feelings,  when  she  comes 
to  hear  from  me  of  the  honor  you  have 
done  her,  if  she  learns  it  was  in  liquor 
rather  cooler  than  the  last,  sir.” 

But  to  these  remonstrances  Mr.  Quilp 
turned  a deaf  ear.  Sampson  Brass,  who 
was,  by  this  time,  anything  but  sober, 
being  compelled  to  take  further  draughts 
of  the  same  strong  bowl,  found  that,  in- 
stead of  at  all  contributing  to  his  recov- 
ery, they  had  the  novel  effect  of  making 
the  counting-house  spin  round  and  round 
with  extreme  velocity,  and  causing  the 
floor  and  ceiling  to  heave  in  a very  dis- 
tressing manner.  After  a brief  stupor, 
he  awoke  to  a consciousness  of  being 
partly  under  the  table  and  partly  un- 
der the  grate.  This  position  not  being 
the  most  comfortable  one  he  could 
have  chosen  for  himself,  he  managed 
to  stagger  to  his  feet,  and,  holding  on 
by  the  admiral,  looked  round  for  his 
host. 

Mr.  Brass’s  first  impression  was,  that 
his  host  was  gone  and  had  left  him  there 
alone,  — perhaps  locked  him  in  for  the 
night.  A strong  smell  of  tobacco, 
however,  suggesting  a new  train  of 


ideas,  he  looked  upward,  and  saw  thau 
the  dwarf  was  smoking  in  his  ham- 
mock. 

“ Good  by,  sir,”  cried  Brass,  faintly. 
“Good  by,  sir.” 

“ Won’t  you  stop  all  night?  ” said  the 
dwarf,  peeping  out.  “ Do  stop  all 
night  ! ” 

“I  couldn’t,  indeed,  sir,”  replied 
Brass,  who  was  almost  dead  from  nau- 
sea and  the  closeness  of  the  room. 
“If  you’d  have  the  goodness  to  show 
me  a light,  so  that  I may  see  my  way 
across  the  yard,  sir — ” 

Quilp  was  out  in  an  instant ; not  with 
his  legs  first,  or  his  head  first,  or  his 
arms  first,  but  bodily,  altogether. 

“To  be  sure,”  he  said,  taking  up  a 
lantern,  which  was  now  the  only  light 
in  the  place.  “ Be  careful  how  you  go, 
my  dear  friend.  Be  sure  to  pick  your 
way  among  the  timber,  for  all  the  rusty 
nails  are  upwards.  There ’s  a dog  in 
the  lane.  He  bit  a man  last  night, 
and  a woman  the  night  before,  and 
last  Tuesday  he  killed  a child, — but 
that  was  in  play.  Don’t  go  too  near 
him.” 

“ Which  side  of  the  road  is  he,  sir?  ” 
asked  Brass,  in  great  dismay. 

“ He  lives  on  the  right  hand,”  said 
Quilp,  “but  sometimes  he  hides  on 
the  left,  ready  for  a spring.  He ’s  urn 
certain  in  that  respect.  Mind  you 
take  care  of  yourself.  I ’ll  never  for' 
give  you  if  you  don’t.  There ’s  th$ 
light  out  ; never  mind,  you  know  thq 
way,  — straight  on  ! ” 

Quilp  had  slyly  shaded  the  light  by 
holding  it  against  his  breast,  and  now 
stood  chuckling  and  shaking  from  head 
to  foot  in  a rapture  of  delight,  as  he 
heard  the  lawyer  stumbling  up  the 
yard,  and  now  and  then  falling  heavily 
down.  At  length,  however,  he  got  quit 
of  the  place,  and  was  out  of  hearing. 

The  dwarf  shut  himself  up  again,  and 
sprang  once  more  into  his  hammock. 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

The  professional  gentleman  who  had 
given  Kit  that  consolatory  piece  of  in- 
formation  relative  to  the  settlement  of 


270 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


his  trifle  of  business  at  the  Old  Bailey, 
and  the  probability  of  its  being  very 
soon  disposed  of,  turned  out  to  be  quite 
correct  in  his  prognostications.  In  eight 
days’  time  the  sessions  commenced. 
In  one  day  afterwards  the  Grand  Jury 
found  a True  Bill  against  Christopher 
Nubbles  for  felony  ; and  in  two  days 
from  that  finding,  the  aforesaid  Christo- 
pher Nubbles  was  called  upon  to  plead 
Guilty  or  Not  Guilty  to  an  Indictment 
for  that  he,  the  said  Christopher,  did  fe- 
loniously abstract  and  steal  from  the 
dwelling-house  and  office  of  one  Samp- 
son Brass,  gentleman,  one  Bank-Note 
for  Five  Pounds,  issued  by  the  Governor 
and  Company  of  the  Bank  of  England  ; 
in  contravention  of  the  Statutes  in  that 
case  made  and  provided,  and  against  the 
eace  of  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King, 
is  crown,  and  dignity. 

To  this  indictment,  Christopher  Nub- 
bles, in  a low  and  trembling  voice, 
pleaded  Not  Guilty;  and  here,  let 
those  who  are  in  the  habit  of  forming 
hasty  judgments  from  appearances,  and 
who  would  have  had  Christopher,  if 
innocent,  speak  out  very  strong  and 
loud,  observe,  that  confinement  and 
anxiety  will  subdue  the  stoutest  hearts ; 
and  that  to  one  who  has  been  close  shut 
up,  though  it  be  only  for  ten  or  eleven 
days,  seeing  but  stone  walls  and  a very 
few  stony  faces,  the  sudden  entrance 
into  a great  hall  filled  with  life  is  a 
rather  disconcerting  and  startling  cir- 
cumstance. To  this,  it  must  be  added, 
that  life  in  a wig  is  to  a large  class  of 
people  much  more  terrifying  and  im- 
pressive than  life  with  its  own  head  of 
hair  ; and  if,  in  addition  to  these  con- 
siderations, there  be  taken  into  account 
Kit’s  natural  emotion  on  seeing  the 
two  Mr.  Garlands  and  the  little  notary 
looking  on  with  pale  and  anxious  faces, 
it  will  perhaps  seem  matter  of  no  very 
great  wonder  that  he  should  have  been 
rather  out  of  sorts  and  unable  to  make 
himself  quite  at  home. 

Although  he  had  never  seen  either  of 
the  Mr.  Garlands,  or  Mr.  Witherden, 
since  the  time  of  his  arrest,  he  had 
been  given  to  understand  that  they  had 
employed  counsel  for  him.  Therefore, 
when  one  of  the  gentlemen  in  wigs  got 
up  and  said,  “ I am  for  the  prisoner, 


my  lord,”  Kit  made  him  a bow;  and 
when  another  gentleman  in  a wig  got 
up  and  said,  “And  I ’m  against  him, 
my  lord,”  Kit  trembled  very  much, 
and  bowed  to  him  too.  And  didn’t  he 
hope  in  his  own  heart  that  his  gentle- 
man was  a match  for  the  other  gentle- 
man, and  would  make  him  ashamed  of 
himself  in  no  time  ! 

The  gentleman  who  was  against  him 
had  to  speak  first,  and  being  in  dread- 
fully good  spirits  (for  he  had,  in  the  last 
trial,  very  nearly  procured  the  acquittal 
of  a young  gentleman  who  had  had  the 
misfortune  to  murder  his  father),  he 
spoke  up,  you  may  be  sure  ; telling  the 
jury  that  if  they  acquitted  this  prisoner 
they  must  expect  to  suffer  no  less  pangs 
and  agonies  than  he  had  told  the  other 
jury  they  would  certainly  undergo  if 
they  convicted  that  prisoner.  And 
when  he  had  told  them  all  about  the 
case,  and  that  he  had  never  known  a 
worse  case,  he  stopped  a little  while, 
like  a man  who  had  something  terrible 
to  tell  them,  and  then  said  that  he  un- 
derstood an  attempt  would  be  made  by 
his  learned  friend  (and  here  he  looked 
sideways  at  Kit’s  gentleman)  to  impeach 
the  testimony  of  those  immaculate  wit- 
nesses whom  he  should  call  before 
them  ; but  he  did  hope  and  trust  that 
his  learned  friend  would  have  a greater 
respect  and  veneration  for  the  character 
of  the  prosecutor;  than  whom,  as  he 
well  knew,  there  did  not  exist,  and 
never  had  existed,  a more  honorable 
member  of  that  most  honorable  profes- 
sion to  which  he  was  attached.  And 
then  he  said,  did  the  jury  know  Bevis 
Marks  ? And  if  they  did  know  Bevis 
Marks  (as  he  trusted,  for  their  own 
characters,  they  did),  did  they  know 
the  historical  and  elevating  associations 
connected  with  that  most  remarkable 
spot?  Did  they  believe  that  a man 
like  Brass  could  reside  in  a place  like 
Bevis  Marks,  and  not  be  a virtuous 
and  most  upright  character?  And 
when  he  had  said  a great  deal  to  them 
on  this  point,  he  remembered  that  it 
was  an  insult  to  their  understandings  to 
make  any  remarks  on  what  they  must 
have  felt  so  strongly  without  him,  and 
therefore  called  Sampson  Brass  into  the 
witness-box  straightway. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


271 


Then  up  comes  Mr.  Brass,  very  brisk 
and  fresh ; and,  having  bowed  to  the 
judge,  like  a man  who  has  had  the 
leasure  of  seeing  him  before,  and  who 
opes  he  has  been  pretty  well  since 
their  last  meeting,  folds  his  arms,  and 
looks  at  his  gentleman  as  much  as  to  say, 
“ Here  I am,  full  of  evidence.  Tap  me  ! ” 
And  the  gentleman  does  tap  him  pres- 
ently, and  with  great  discretion  too ; 
drawing  off  the  evidence  by  little  and 
little,  and  making  it  run  quite  clear  and 
bright  in  the  eyes  of  all  present.  Then 
Kit’s  gentleman  takes  him  in  hand,  but 
can  make  nothing  of  him ; and  after 
a great  many  very  long  questions  and 
very  short  answers,  Mr.  Sampson  Brass 
goes  down  in  glory. 

To  him  succeeds  Sarah,  who  in  like 
manner  is  easy  to  be  managed  by  Mr. 
Brass’s  gentleman,  but  very  obdurate 
to  Kit’s.  In  short,  Kit’s  gentleman 
can  get  nothing  out  of  her  but  a repeti- 
tion of  what  she  has  said  before  (only 
a little  stronger  this  time,  as  against 
his  client),  and  therefore  lets  her  go, 
in  some  confusion.  Then  Mr.  Brass’s 
gentleman  calls  Richard  Swiveller,  and 
Richard  Swiveller  appears  accordingly. 

Now,  Mr.  Brass’s  gentleman  has  it 
whispered  in  his  ear  that  this  witness 
is  disposed  to  be  friendly  to  the  prisoner, 
— which,  to  say  the  truth,  he  is  rather 
glad  to  hear,  as  his  strength  is  consid- 
ered to  lie  in  what  is  familiarly  termed 
badgering.  Wherefore,  he  begins  by 
requesting  the  officer  to  be  quite  sure 
that  this  witness  kisses  the  book,  and 
then  goes  to  work  at  him,  tooth  and 
nail. 

“Mr.  Swiveller,”  says  this  gentleman 
to  Dick,  when  he  has  told  his  tale  with 
evident  reluctance  and  a desire  to  make 
the  best  of  it,  “pray,  sir,  where  did  you 
dine  yesterday?”  “Where  did  I dine 
yesterday?”  “Ay,  sir,  where  did  you 
dine  yesterday,  — was  it  near  here,  sir  ? ” 
“O  to  be  sure, — yes, — just  over  the 
way  — ” “To  be  sure.  Yes.  Just 
over  the  way,”  repeats  Mr.  Brass’s 
gentleman,  with  a glance  at  the  court. 
“ Alone,  sir  ? ” “ I beg  your  pardon  — ” 
says  Mr.  Swiveller,  wrho  has  not  caught 
the  question.  “Alone,  sir?”  repeats 
Mr.  Brass’s  gentleman  in  a voice  of 
thunder.  “ Did  you  dine  alone?  Did 


you  treat  anybody,  sir?  Come  ! ” “ O 

yes  to  be  sure,  — yes,  I did,”  says  Mr. 
Swiveller  with  a smile.  “ Have  the 
goodness  to  banish  a levity,  sir,  which 
is  very  ill-suited  to  the  place  in  which 
you  stand  (though  perhaps  you  have 
reason  to  be  thankful  that  it ’s  only  that 
place),”  says  Mr.  Brass’s  gentleman, 
with  a nod  of  the  head,  insinuating  that 
the  dock  is  Mr.  Swiveller’s  legitimate 
sphere  of  action  ; “ and  attend  to  me. 
You  were  waiting  about  here,  yesterday, 
in  expectation  that  this  trial  was  coming 
on.  You  dined  over  the  way.  You 
treated  somebody.  Now,  was  that 
somebody  brother  to  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar  ? ” Mr.  Swiveller  is  proceeding  to 
explain.  “Yes  or  No,  sir,”  cries  Mr. 
Brass’s  gentleman.  “ But  will  you  al- 
lowme  — ” “ Yes  or  No,  sir.”  “Yes, 

it  was,  but  — ” “ Yes,  it  was,”  cries  the 

gentleman,  taking  him  up  short.  “ And 
a very  pretty  witness  you  are  ! ” 

Down  sits  Mr.  Brass’s  gentleman. 
Kit’s  gentleman,  not  knowing  how  the 
matter  really  stands,  is  afraid  to  pursue 
the  subject.  Richard  Swiveller  retires 
abashed.  Judge,  jury,  and  spectators 
have  visions  of  his  lounging  about  with 
an  ill-looking,  large-whiskered,  disso- 
lute young  fellow  of  six  feet  high.  The 
reality  is,  little  Jacob,  with  the  calves 
of  his  legs  exposed  to  the  open  air,  and 
himself  tied  up  in  a shawl.  Nobody 
knows  the  truth  ; everybody  believes  a 
falsehood  ; and  all  because  of  the  inge- 
nuity of  Mr.  Brass’s  gentleman. 

Then  come  the  witnesses  to  character, 
and  here  Mr.  Brass’s  gentleman  shines 
again.  It  turns  out  that  Mr.  Garland 
has  had  no  character  with  Kit,  no  rec- 
ommendation of  him  but  from  his  own 
mother,  and  that  he  was  suddenly  dis- 
missed by  his  former  master  for  unknown 
reasons.  “Really,  Mr.  Garland,”  says 
Mr.  Brass’s  gentleman,  “for  a person 
who  has  arrived  at  your  time  of  life 
you  are,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  singularly 
indiscreet,  I think.”  The  jury  think  so 
too,  and  find  Kit  guilty.  He  is  taken 
off,  humbly  protesting  his  innocence. 
The  spectators  settle  themselves  in  their 
places  with  renewed  attention,  for  there 
are  several  female  witnesses  to  be  exam- 
ined in  the  next  case,  and  it  has  been 
rumored  that  Mr.  Brass’s  gentleman 


272 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


will  make  great  fun  in  cross-examining 
them  for  the  prisoner. 

Kit’s  mother,  poor  woman,  is  waiting 
at  the  grate  below  stairs,  accompanied 
by  Barbara’s  mother  (who,  honest  soul ! 
never  does  anything  but  cry  and  hold 
the  baby),  and  a sad  interview  ensues. 
The  newspaper -reading  turnkey  has 
told  them  all.  He  don’t  think  it  will 
be  transportation  for  life,  because  there ’s 
time  to  prove  the  good  character  yet, 
and  that  is  sure  to  serve  him.  He  won- 
ders what  he  did  it  for.  “ He  never 
did  it  ! ” cries  Kit’s  mother.  “ Well,” 
says  the  turnkey,  “ I won’t  contradict 
you.  It ’s  all  one,  now,  whether  he  did 
it  or  not.” 

Kit’s  mother  can  reach  his  hand 
through  the  bars,  and  she  clasps  it  — 
God,  and  those  to  whom  he  has  given 
such  tenderness,  only  know  in  how  much 
agony.  Kit  bids  her  keep  a good  heart, 
and,  under  pretence  of  having  the  chil- 
dren lifted  up  to  kiss  him,  prays  Bar- 
bara’s mother  in  a whisper  to  take  her 
home. 

“ Some  friend  will  rise  up  for  us, 
mother,”  cries  Kit,  “I  am  sure.  If 
not  now,  before  long.  My  innocence 
will  come  out,  mother,  and  I shall  be 
brought  back  again  ; I feel  a confidence 
in  that.  You  must  teach  little  Jacob 
and  the  baby  how  all  this  was,  for  if 
they  thought  I had  ever  been  dishonest, 
when  they  grew  old  enough  to  under- 
stand, it  would  break  my  heart  to  know 
it,  if  I was  thousands  of  miles  away.  — 
Oh  ! is  there  no  good  gentleman  here 
who  will  take  care  of  her?” 

The  hand  slips  out  of  his,  for  the 
poor  creature  sinks  down  upon  the 
earth,  insensible.  Richard  Swiveller 
comes  hastily  up,  elbows  the  by-standers 
out  of  the  way,  takes  her  (after  some 
trouble)  in  one  arm  after  the  manner 
of  theatrical  ravishers,  and,  nodding  to 
Kit,  and  commanding  Barbara’s  mother 
to  follow,  for  he  has  a coach  waiting, 
bears  her  swiftly  off. 

Well;  Richard  took  her  home.  And 
what  astonishing  absurdities  in  the  way 
of  quotation  from  song  and  poem  he 
perpetrated  on  the  road  no  man  knows. 
He  took  her  home,  and  stayed  till  she 
was  recovered ; and,  having  no  money 
to  pay  the  coach,  went  back  in  state  to 


Bevis  Marks,  bidding  the  driver  (for  it 
was  Saturday  night)  wait  at  the  door 
while  he  went  in  for  “change.” 

“ Mr.  Richard,  sir,”  said  Brass,  cheer- 
fully, “ good  evening  ! ” 

Monstrous  as  Kit’s  tale  had  appeared, 
at  first,  Mr.  Richard  did,  that  night, 
half  suspect  his  affable  employer  of 
some  deep  villany.  Perhaps  it  was  but 
the  misery  he  had  just  witnessed  which 
gave  his  careless  nature  this  impulse ; 
but,  be  that  as  it  may,  it  was  very 
strong  upon  him,  and  he  said  in  as  few 
words  as  possible  what  he  wanted. 

“Money?”  cried  Brass,  taking  out 
his  purse.  “ Ha,  ha  ! To  be  sure,  Mr. 
Richard,  to  be  sure,  sir.  All  men  must 
live.  You  have  n’t  change  for  a five- 
pound  note,  have  you,  sir?” 

“ No,”  returned  Dick,  shortly. 

“O,”  said  Brass,  ‘-‘here’s  the  very 
sum.  That  saves  trouble.  “ You  ’re 
very  welcome,  I ’m  sure.  Mr.  Rich-' 
ard,  sir  — ” 

Dick,  who  had  by  this  time  reached 
the  door,  turned  round. 

“You  needn’t,”  said  Brass,  “trouble 
yourself  to  come  back  any  more,  sir.” 
“Eh?” 

“You  see,  Mr.  Richard,”  said  Brass, 
thrusting  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
rocking  himself  to  and  fro  on  his  stool, 
“ the  fact  is,  that  a man  of  your  abilities 
is  lost,  sir,  quite  lost,  in  our  dry  and 
mouldy  line.  It ’s  terrible  drudgery,  — 
shocking.  I should  say,  now,  that  the 
stage,  or  the — or  the  army,  Mr.  Richard, 
or  something  very  superior  in  the  li- 
censed victualling  way,  was  the  kind  of 
thing  that  would  call  out  the  genius  of 
such  a man  as  you.  I hope  you  ’ll  look 
in  to  see  us  now  and  then.  Sally,  sir, 
will  be  delighted,  I ’m  sure.  She ’s  ex- 
tremely sorry  to  lose  you,  Mr.  Richard, 
but  a sense  of  her  duty  to  society  recon- 
ciles her.  An  amazing  creature  that,  sir  ! 
You’ll  find  the  money  quite  correct,  I 
think.  There ’s  a cracked  window,  sir, 
but  I ’ve  not  made  any  deduction  on 
that  account  Whenever  we  part  with 
friends,  Mr.  Richard,  let  us  part  lib- 
erally. A delightful  sentiment,  sir ! ” 
To  all  these  rambling  observations 
Mr.  Swiveller  answered  not  one  word, 
but,  returning  for  the  aquatic  jacket, 
rolled  it  into  a tight  round  ball,  look- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


273 


ing  steadily  at  Brass,  meanwhile,  as  if 
he  had  some  intention  of  bowling  him 
down  with  it.  He  only  took  it  under 
his  arm,  however,  and  marched  out  of 
the  office  in  profound  silence.  When 
he  had  closed  the  door,  he  reopened  it, 
stared  in  again  for  a few  moments  with 
the  same  portentous  gravity,  and,  nod- 
ding his  head  once,  in  a slow  and  ghost- 
like manner,  vanished. 

He  paid  the  coachman,  and  turned 
his  back  on  Bevis  Marks,  big  vyith 
great  designs  for  the  comforting  of  Kit’s 
mother  and  the  aid  of  Kit  himself. 

But  the  lives  of  gentlemen  devoted 
to  such  pleasures  as  Richard  Swiveller 
are  extremely  precarious.  The  spirit- 
ual excitement  of  the  last  fortnight, 
working  upon  a system  affected  in  no 
slight  degree  by  the  spirituous  excite- 
ment of  some  yeai's,  proved  a little  too 
much  for  him.  That  very  night  Mr. 
Richard  was  seized  with  an  alarming 
illness,  and  in  twenty-four  hours  was 
stricken  with  a raging  fever. 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

Tossing  to  and  fro  upon  his  hot,  un- 
easy bed  ; tormented  by  a fierce  thirst 
which  nothing  could  appease  ; unable 
to  find,  in  any  change  of  posture,  a 
moment’s  peace  or  ease  ; and  rambling 
ever  through  deserts  of  thought  where 
there  was  no  resting-place,  no  sight  or 
sound  suggestive  of  refreshment  or  re- 
pose, nothing  but  a dull  eternal  weari- 
ness, with  no  change  but  the  restless 
shiftings  of  his  miserable  body,  and  the 
weary  wanderings  of  his  mind,  constant 
still  to  one  ever-present  anxiety,  — to  a 
sense  of  something  left  undone,  of  some 
fearful  obstacle  to  be  surmounted,  of 
some  carking  care  that  would  not  be 
driven  aw'ay,  and  which  haunted  the 
distempered  brain,  now  in  this  form, 
now  in  that,  always  shadowy  and  dim, 
but  recognizable  for  the  same  phantom 
in  every  shape  it  took,  darkening  every 
vision  like  an  evil  conscience,  and  mak- 
ing slumber  horrible,  — in  these  slow 
tortures  of  his  dread  disease,  the  un- 
fortunate Richard  lay  wasting  and  con- 
suming inch  by  inch,  until  at  last,  when 
18 


he  seemed  to  fight  and  struggle  to  rise 
up,  and  to  be  held  down  by  devils,  he 
sank  into  a deep  sleep,  and  dreamed  no 
more. 

He  awoke.  With  a sensation  of  most 
blissful  rest,  better  than  sleep  itself,  he 
began  gradually  to  remember  some- 
thing of  these  sufferings,  and  to  think 
what  a long  night  it  had  been,  and 
whether  he  had  not  been  delirious 
twice  or  thrice.  Happening,  in  the 
midst  of  these  cogitations,  to  raise  his 
hand,  he  was  astonished  to  find  how 
heavy  it  seemed,  and  yet  how  thin  and 
light  it  really  was.  Still,  he  felt  in- 
different and  happy ; and,  having  no 
curiosity  to  pursue  the  subject,  remained 
in  the  same  waking  slumber  until  his 
attention  was  attracted  by  a cough. 
This  made  him  doubt  whether  he  had 
locked  his  door  last  night,  and  feel  a 
little  surprised  at  having  a companion 
in  the  room.  Still  he  lacked  energy  to 
follow  up  this  train  of  thought  ; and 
unconsciously  fell,  in  a luxury  of  repose, 
to  staring  at  some  green  stripes  on 
the  bed-furniture,  and  associating  them 
strangely  with  patches  of  fresh  turf, 
while  the  yellow  ground  between  made 
gravel-walks,  and  so  helped  out  a long 
perspective  of  trim  gardens. 

He  was  rambling  in  imagination  on 
these  terraces,  and  had  quite  lost  him- 
self among  them  indeed,  when  he  heard 
the  cough  once  more.  The  walks 
shrunk  into  stripes  again  at  the  sound  ; 
and  raising  himself  a little  in  the  bed, 
and  holding  the  curtain  open  with  one 
hand,  he  looked  out. 

The  same  room,  certainly,  and  still  by 
candle-light  ; but  with  what  unbounded 
astonishment  did  he  see  all  those  bot- 
tles, and  basins,  and  articles  of  linen 
airing  by  the  fire,  and  such-like  furni- 
ture of  a sick- chamber,  — all  very  clean 
and  neat,  but  all  quite  different  from 
anything  he  had  left  there  when  he 
went  to  bed ! The  atmosphere,  too, 
filled  with  a cool  smell  of  herbs  and 
vinegar ; the  floor  newly  sprinkled  ; the 
— the  what?  The  Marchioness? 

Yes  ; playing  cribbage  with  herself  at 
the  table.'  There  she  sat,  intent  upon 
her  game,  coughing  now  and  then  in  a 
subdued  manner  as  if  she  feared  to  dis- 
turb him,  — shuffling  the  cards,  cutting, 


274 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


dealing,  playing,  counting,  pegging, — 
going  through  all  the  mysteries  of  crib- 
bage  as  if  she  had  been  in  full  practice 
from  her  cradle  ! 

Mr.  Swiveller  contemplated  these 
things  for  a short  time,  and,  suffering 
the  curtain  to  fall  into  its  former  posi- 
tion, laid  his  head  on  the  pillow  again. 

“ I ’m  dreaming,”  thought  Richard, 
“ that ’s  clear.  When  I went  to  bed 
my  hands  were  not  made  of  egg-shells  ; 
and  now  I can  almost  see  through  ’em. 
If  this  is  not  a dream,  I have  woke  up, 
by  mistake,  in  an  Arabian  Nighjt,  in- 
stead of  a London  one.  But  I have  no 
doubt  I ’m  asleep.  Not  the  least.” 

Here  the  small  servant  had  another 
cough. 

“Very  remarkable!”  thought  Mr. 
Swiveller.  “ I never  dreamt  such  a real 
cough  as  that  before.  I don’t  know, 
indeed,  that  I ever  dreamt  either  a 
cough  or  a sneeze.  Perhaps  it ’s  part 
of  the  philosophy  of  dreams  that  one 
never  does.  There  ’s  another — and 
another.  I say ! — I’m  dreaming  rather 
fast ! ” 

For  the  purpose  of  testing  his  real 
condition,  Mr.  Swiveller,  after  some  re- 
flection, pinched  himself  in  the  arm. 

“Queerer  still!”  he  thought.  “I 
came  to  bed  rather  plump  than  other- 
wise, and  now  there ’s  nothing  to  lay 
hold  of.  I’ll  take  another  survey.” 

The  result  of  this  additional  inspec- 
tion was,  to  convince  Mr.  Swiveller  that 
the  objects  by  which  he  was  surround- 
ed were  real,  and  that  he  saw  them, 
beyond  all  question,  with  his  waking 
eyes. 

“ It ’s  an  Arabian  Night ; that’s  what 
it  is,”  said  Richard.  “ I ’m  in  Damas- 
cus or  Grand  Cairo.  The  Marchioness 
is  a Genie,  and  having  had  a wager 
with  another  Genie  about  who  is  the 
handsomest  young  man  alive,  and  the 
worthiest  to  be  the  husband  of  the  Prin- 
cess of  China,  has  brought  me  away, 
room  and  all,  to  compare  us  together. 
“ Perhaps,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  turn- 
ing languidly  round  on  his  pillow,  and 
looking  on  that  side  of  his  bed  which 
was  next  the  wall,  “ the  Princess  may 
be  still — No,  she ’s  gone.” 

Not  feeling  quite  satisfied  with  this 
explanation,  as,  even  taking  it  to  be  the 


correct  one,  it  still  involved  a little  mys- 
tery and  doubt,  Mr.  Swiveller  raised 
the  curtain  again,  determined  to  take 
the  first  favorable  opportunity  of  ad- 
dressing his  companion.  An  occasion 
soon  presented  itself.  The  Marchion- 
ess dealt,  turned  up  a knave,  and  omit- 
ted to  take  the  usual  advantage  ; upon 
which,  Mr.  Swiveller  called  out  as  loud 
as  he  could,  “ Two  for  his  heels  ! ” 

The  Marchioness  jumped  up  quick- 
ly, and  clapped  her  hands.  “Arabian 
Night,  certainly,”  thought  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler. “ They  always  clap  their  hands  in- 
stead of  ringing  the  bell.  Now  for  the 
two  thousand  black  slaves,  with  jars  of 
jewels  on  their  heads  ! ” 

It  appeared,  however,  that  she  had 
only  clapped  her  hands  for  joy  ; as  di- 
rectly afterwards  she  began  to  laugh, 
and  then  to  cry  ; declaring,  not  in  choice 
Arabic,  but  in  familiar  English,  that  sh& 
was  “so  glad  she  did  n’t  know  what  to 
do.” 

“ Marchioness,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
thoughtfully,  “ be  pleased  to  draw  near- 
er. First  of  all,  will  you  have  the  good- 
ness to  inform  me  where  I shall  find  my 
voice  ; and,  secondly,  what  has  become 
of  my  flesh  ? ” 

The  Marchioness  only  shook  her  head 
mournfully,  and  cried  again  ; where- 
upon Mr.  Swiveller  (being  very  weak) 
felt  his  own  eyes  affected  .likewise. 

“ I begin  to  infer,  from  your  manner, 
and  these  appearances,  Marchioness,” 
said  Richard  after  a pause,  and  smiling 
with  a trembling  lip,  “ that  I have  been 
ill.” 

“You  just  have  ! ” replied  the  small 
servant,  wiping  her  eyes.  “ And 
have  n’t  you  been  a talking  non- 
sense ! ” 

“ Oh  ! ” said  Dick.  “ Very  ill,  Mar- 
chioness, have  I been  ? ” 

“Dead,  all  but,”  replied  the  small 
servant.  “ I never  thought  you ’d  get 
better.  Thank  Heaven  you  have  ! ” 

Mr.  Swiveller  was  silent  for  a long 
while.  By  and  by,  he  began  to  talk 
again  ; inquiring  how  long  he  had  been 
there. 

“ Three  weeks  to-morrow,”  replied 
the  small  servant. 

“ Three  what  ? ” said  Dick. 

“Weeks,”  returned  the  Marchion- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


275 


ess  emphatically;  “three  long,  slow 
weeks.” 

The  bare  thought  of  having  been  in 
such  extremity  caused  Richard  to  fall 
into  another  silence,  and  to  lie  fiat 
down  again,  at  his  full  length.  The 
Marchioness,  having  arranged  the  bed- 
clothes more  comfortably,  and  felt  that 
his  hands  and  forehead  were  quite  cool, 
— a discovery  that  filled  her  with  de- 
light,— cried  a little  more,  and  then 
applied  herself  to  getting  tea  ready,  and 
making  some  thin  drv-toast. 

While  she  was  thus  engaged,  Mr. 
Swiveller  looked  on  with  a grateful 
heart,  very  much  astonished  to  see  how 
thoroughly  at  home  she  made  herself, 
and.  attributing  this  attention,  in  its 
origin,  to  Sally  Brass,  whom,  in  his 
own  mind,  he  could  not  thank  enough. 
When  the  Marchioness  had  finished 
her  toasting,  she  spread  a clean  cloth 
on  a tray,  and  brought  him  some 
crisp  slices  and  a great  basin  of  weak 
tea,  with  which  (she  said)  the  doctor 
had  left  word  he  might  refresh  himself 
when  he  awoke.  She  propped  him  up 
with  pillows,  if  not  as  skilfully  as  if  she 
had  been  a professional  nurse  all  her 
life,  at  least  as  tenderly  ; and  looked  on 
with  unutterable  satisfaction  while  the 
patient  — stopping  every  now  and  then 
to  shake  her  by  the  hand  — took  his 
poor  meal  with  an  appetite  and  relish 
which  the  greatest  dainties  of  the  earth, 
under  any  other  circumstances,  would 
have  failed  to  provoke.  Having  cleared 
away,  and  disposed  everything  comfort- 
ably about  him  again,  she  sat  down  at 
the  table  to  take  her  own  tea. 

“ Marchioness,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
“how  ’s  Sally  ?” 

The  small  servant  screwed  her  face 
into  an  expression  of  the  very  uttermost 
entanglement  of  slyness,  and  shook  her 
head. 

“ What,  have  n’t  you  seen  her  late- 
ly ? ” said  Dick. 

“ Seen  her  ! ” cried  the  small  servant. 
“ Bless  you,  I ’ve  run  away  ! ” 

Mr.  Swiveller  immediately  laid  him- 
self down  again  quite  fiat,  and  so  re- 
mained for  about  five  minutes.  By 
slow  degrees  he  resumed  his  sitting 
posture  after  that  lapse  of  time,  and  in- 
quired : — 


“ And  where  do  you  live,  Marchion- 
ess ? ” 

“ Live  ! ” cried  the  small  servant. 
“ Here  ! ” 

“ Oh  ! ” said  Mr.  Swiveller. 

And  with  that  he  fell  down  flat  again, 
as  suddenly  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 
Thus  he  remained,  motionless  and  be- 
reft of  speech,  until  she  had  finished  her 
meal,  put  everything  in  its  place,  and 
swept  the  hearth ; when  he  motioned 
her  to  bring  a chair  to  the  bedside,  and, 
being  propped  up  again,  opened  a fur- 
ther conversation. 

“And  so,”  said  Dick,  “you  have  run 
away?” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  Marchioness;  “and 
they ’ve  been  a tizing  of  me.” 

“ Been  — I beg  your  pardon,”  said 
Dick,  — “ what  have  they  been  do- 
ing ? ” 

“Been  a tizing  of  me  — tizmg,  you 
know  — in  the  newspapers,”  rejoined 
the  Marchioness. 

“ Ay,  ay,”  said  Dick,  “advertising?  ” 

The  small  servant  nodded,  and 
winked.  Her  eyes  were  so  red  with 
waking  and  crying,  that  the  Tragic 
Muse  might  have  winked  with  greater 
consistency.  And  so  Dick  felt. 

“Tell  me,”  said  he,  “how  it  was 
that  you  thought  of  coming  here.” 

“Why,  you  see,”  returned  the  Mar- 
chioness, “ when  you  was  gone,  I had  n’t 
any  friend  at  all,  because  the  lodger,  he 
never  come  back,  and  I did  n’t  know 
where  either  him  or  you  was  to  be 
found,  you  know.  But  one  morning, 
when  I was  — ” 

“Was  near  a keyhole?”  suggested 
Mr.  Swiveller,  observing  that  she  fal- 
tered. 

“ Well,  then,”  said  the  small  servant, 
nodding,  “when  I was  near  the  office 
keyhole,  — as  you  see  me  through,  you 
knowr,  — I heard  somebody  saying  that 
she  lived  here,  and  was  the  lady  whose 
house  you  lodged  at,  and  that  you  was 
took  very  bad,  and  wouldn’t  nobody 
come  and  take  care  of  you.  Mr.  Brass, 
he  says,  ‘ It ’s  no  business  of  mine,’  he 
says;  and  Miss  Sally,  she  says,  4 He’s 
a funny  chap,  but  it ’s  no  business  of 
mine  ’ ; and  the  lady  went  away,  and 
slammed  the  door  to,  when  she  went 
out,  I can  tell  you.  So  I ran  away  that 


276 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


night,  and  come  here,  and  told  ’em  you 
was  my  brother,  and  they  believed  me, 
and  I ’ve  been  here  ever  since.” 

“This  poor  little  Marchioness  has 
been  wearing  herself  to  death  ! ” cried 
Dick. 

“ No,  I have  n’t,”  she  returned,  “ not 
a bit  of  it.  Don’t  you  mind  about  me. 
I like  sitting  up,  and  I ’ve  often  had  a 
sleep,  bless  you,  in  one  of  them  chairs. 
But  if  you  could  have  seen  how  you 
tried  to  jurap  out  o’  winder,  and  if  you 
could  have  heard  how  you  used  to  keep 
on  singing  and  making  speeches,  you 
wouldn’t  have  believed  it.  I ’m  %o 
glad  you’re  better,  Mr.  Liverer.” 

‘ ‘ Liverer,  indeed ! ” said  Dick,  thought- 
fully. “ It ’s  well  I am  a liverer.  I 
strongly  suspect  I should  have  died, 
Marchioness,  but  for  you.” 

At  this  point,  Mr.  Swiveller  took  the 
small  servant’s  hand  in  his  again,  and 
being  as  we  have  seen  but  poorly,  might, 
in  struggling  to  express  his  thanks,  have 
made  his  eyes  as  red  as  hers,  but  that 
she  quickly  changed  the  theme  by  mak- 
ing him  lie  down,  and  urging  him  to 
keep  very  quiet. 

“The  doctor,”  she  told  him,  “said 
you  was  to  be  kept  quite  still,  and  there 
was  to  be  no  noise  nor  nothing.  Now, 
take  a rest,  and  then  we  ’ll  talk  again. 
I ’ll  sit  by  you,  you  know.  If  you  shut 
your  eyes,  perhaps  you  ’ll  go  to  sleep. 
You  ’ll  be  all  the  better  for  it  if  you 
do.” 

The  Marchioness,  in  saying  these 
words,  brought  a little  table  to  the  bed- 
side, took  her  seat  at  it,  and  began  to 
work  away  at  the  concoction  of  some 
cooling  drink,  with  the  address  of  a 
score  of  chemists.  Richard  Swiveller, 
being  indeed  fatigued,  fell  into  a slum- 
ber, and  waking  in  about  half  an  hour, 
inquired  what  time  it  was. 

“ Just  gone  half  after  six,”  replied  his 
small  friend,  helping  him  to  sit  up 
again. 

“ Marchioness,”  said  Richard,  pass- 
ing his  hand  over  his  forehead  and 
turning  suddenly  round,  as  though  the 
subject  but  that  moment  flashed  upon 
him,  “what  has  become  of  Kit?” 

He  had  been  sentenced  to  transporta- 
tion for  a great  many  years,  she  said. 

“ Has  he  gone  ? ” asked  Dick. 


“His  mother — how  is  she?  what  has 
become  of  her?  ” 

His  nurse  shook  her  head,  and  an- 
swered that  she  knew  nothing  about 
them.  “ But  if  I thought,”  said  she, 
very  slowly,  “ that  you ’d  keep  quiet, 
and  not  put  yourself  into  another  fever, 
I could  tell  you — but  I won’t  now.” 

“Yes,  do,”  said  Dick.  “It  will 
amuse  me.” 

“ O,  would  it,  though  ? ” rejoined  the 
small  servant,  with  a horrified  look. 
“ I know  better  than  that.  Wait  till 
you’re  better  and  then  I ’ll  tell  you.” 

Dick  looked  very  earnestly  at  his  lit- 
tle friend ; and  his  eyes,  being  large 
and  hollow  from  illness,  assisted  the 
expression  so  much  that  she  was  quite 
frightened,  and  besought  him  not  to 
think  any  more  about  it.  What  had 
already  fallen  from  her,  however,  had 
not  only  piqued  his  curiosity,  but  seri- 
ously alarmed  him,  wherefore  he  urged 
her  to  tell  him  the  worst  at  once. 

“ O,  there ’s  no  worst  in  it,”  said  the 
small  servant.  “ It  has  n’t  anything  to 
do  with  you.” 

“Has  it  anything  to  do  with  — is  it 
anything  you  heard  through  chinks  or 
keyholes,  and  that  you  were  not  in- 
tended to  hear  ? ” asked  Dick,  in  a 
breathless  state. 

“Yes,”  replied  the  small  servant. 

“ In  — in  Bevis  Marks  ? ” pursued 
Dick,  hastily.  “ Conversations  between 
Brass  and  Sally? ” 

“Yes,”  cried  the  small  servant,  again. 

Richard  Swiveller  thrust  his  lank  arm 
out  of  bed,  and  griping  her  by  the 
wrist,  and  drawing  her  close  to  him, 
bade  her  out  with  it,  and  freely  too,  or 
he  would  not  answer  for  the  consequen- 
ces, being  wholly  unable  to  endure 
that  state  of  excitement  and  expecta- 
tion. She,  seeing  that  he  was  greatly 
agitated,  and  that  the  effects  of  postpon- 
ing her  revelation  might  be  much  more 
injurious  than  any  that  were  likely  to 
ensue  from  its  being  made  at  once, 
promised  compliance,  on  condition  that 
the  patient  kept  himself  perfectly  quiet, 
and  abstained  from  starting  up  or  toss- 
ing about. 

“ But  if  you  begin  to  do  that,”  said 
the  small  servant,  “ I ’ll  leave  off.  And 
so  I tell  you.” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


277 


“ You  can’t  leave  off,  till  you  have 
gone  on,”  said  Dick.  “ And  do  go  on, 
there ’s  a darling.  Speak,  sister,  speak. 
Pretty  Polly,  say.  O tell  me  when,  and 
tell  me  where,  pray,  Marchioness,  I be- 
seech you  ! ” 

Unable  to  resist  these  fervent  adjura- 
tions, which  Richard  Swiveller  poured 
out  as  passionately  as  if  they  had  been 
of  the  most  solemn  and  tremendous  na- 
ture, his  companion  spoke  thus  : — 

“ Well ! Before  I run  away,  I used 
to  sleep  in  the  kitchen,  — where  we 
played  cards,  you  know.  Miss  Sally 
used  to  keep  the  key  of  the  kitchen 
door  in  her  pocket,  and  she  always 
come  down  at  night  to  take  away  the 
candle  and  rake  out  the  fire.  When 
she  had  done  that,  she  left  me  to  go  to 
bed  in  the  dark,  locked  the  door  on  the 
outside,  put  the  key  in  her  pocket  again, 
and  kept  me  locked  up  till  she  come 
down  in  the  morning  — very  early,  I 
can  tell  you  — and  let  me  out.  I was 
terrible  afraid  of  being  kept  like  this, 
because  if  there  was  a fire,  I thought 
they  might  forget  me  and  only  take  care 
of  themselves,  you  know.  So,  when- 
ever I see  an  old  rusty  key  anywhere,  I 
picked  it  up,  and  tried  if  it  would  fit  the 
door,  and  at  last  I found  in  the  dust- 
cellar  a key  that  did  fit  it.” 

Here  Mr.  Swiveller  made  a violent 
demonstration  with  his  legs.  But  the 
small  servant  immediately  pausing  in 
her  talk,  he  subsided  again,  and,  plead- 
ing a momentary  forgetfulness  of  their 
compact,  entreated  her  to  proceed. 

“They  kept  me  very  short,”  said  the 
small  servant.  “ O,  you  can’t  think 
how  short  they  kept  me  ! So  I used  to 
come  out  at  night  after  they ’d  gone  to 
bed,  and  feel  about  in  the  dark  for  bits 
of  biscuit,  or  sangwitches  that  you ’d 
left  in  the  office,  or  even  pieces  of  orange- 
eel  to  put  into  cold  water  and  make 
elieve  it  was  wine.  Did  you  ever  taste 
orange-peel  and  water  ? ” 

Mr.  Swiveller  replied  that  he  had 
never  tasted  that  ardent  liquor  ; and 
once  more  urged  his  friend  to  resume 
the  thread  of  her  narrative. 

“ If  you  make  believe  very  much,  it ’s 
quite  nice,”  said  the  small  servant  ; 
“ but  if  you  dqp’t,  you  know,  it  seems 
as  if  it  would  bear  a little  more  season- 


ing, certainly.  Well,  sometimes  I used 
to  come  out  after  they’d  gone  to  bed, 
and  sometimes  before,  you  know  ; and 
one  or  two  nights  before  there  was  all 
that  precious  noise  in  the  office,  — when 
the  young  man  was  took,  I mean,  — I 
come  up  stairs  while  Mr.  Brass  and 
Miss  Sally  was  a sittin’  at  the  office 
fire  ; and  I ’ll  tell  you  the  truth,  that  I 
come  to  listen  again  about  the  key  of 
the  safe.” 

Mr.  Swiveller  gathered  up  his  knees 
so  as  to  make  a great  cone  of  the  bed- 
clothes, and  conveyed  into  his  counte- 
nance an  expression  of  the  utmost  con- 
cern. But  the  small  servant  pausing, 
and  holding  up  her  finger,  the  cone 
gently  disappeared,  though  the  look  of 
concern  did  not. 

“There  was  him  and  her,”  said  the 
small  servant,  “a  sittin’  by  the  fire,  and 
talking  softly  together.  Mr.  Brass  says 
to  Miss  Sally,  ‘Upon  my  word,’  he 
says,  ‘ it ’s  a dangerous  thing,  and  it 
might  get  us  into  a world  of  trouble,  and 
I don’t  half  like  it.*  She  says,  — you 
know  her  way,  — she  says,  ‘You’re  the 
chickenest-hearted,  feeblest,  faintest 
man  I ever  see,  and  I think,’  she 
says,  ‘ that  I ought  to  have  been  the 
brother,  and  you  the  sister.  Isn’t 
Quilp,’  she  says,  ‘our  principal  sup- 
port?’ ‘He  certainly  is,’  says  Mr. 

Brass.  ‘And  ain’t  we,’  she  says,  ‘con- 
stantly ruining  somebody  or  other  in 
the  way  of  business  ? ’ ‘We  certainly 
are,’  says  Mr.  Brass.  ‘Then  does  it 
signify,’  she  says,  ‘about  ruining  this 
Kit  when  Quilp  desires  it  ? ’ ‘It  cer- 
tainly does  not  signify,’  says  Mr. 
Brass.  Then  they  whispered  and 

laughed  for  a long  time  about  there 
being  no  danger  if  it  was  well  done, 
and  then  Mr.  Brass  pulls  out  his  pocket- 
book,  and  says,  ‘Well,’  he  says,  ‘here 
it  is,  — Quilp’s  own  five-pound  note. 
We’ll  agree  that  way,  then,’  he  says. 

‘ Kit ’s  coming  to-morrow  morning,  I 
know.  While  he’s  up  stairs,  you’ll 
get  out  of  the  way,  and  I ’ll  clear  off 
Mr.  Richard.  Having  Kit  alone,  I ’ll 
hold  him  in  conversation,  and  put  this 
property  in  his  hat.  I ’ll  manage  so, 
besides,’  he  says,  ‘that  Mr.  Richard 
shall  find  it  there,  and  be  the  evidence. 
And  if  that  don’t  get  Christopher  out 


278 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


of  Mr.  Quilp’s  way,  and  satisfy  Mr. 
Quilp’s  grudges,’  he  says,  ‘the  Devil’s 
in  it.’  Miss  Sally  laughed,  and  said 
that  was  the  plan,  and  as  they  seemed 
to  be  moving  away,  and  I was  afraid  to 
stop  any  longer,  I went  down  stairs 
again.  — There  ! ” 

The  small  servant  had  gradually 
worked  herself  into  as  much  agita- 
tion as  Mr.  Swiveller,  and  therefore 
made  no  effort  to  restrain  him  when 
he  sat  up  in  bed  and  hastily  demanded 
whether  this  story  had  been  told  to  any- 
body. 

“ How  could  it  be  ? ” replied  his  nurse. 
“ I was  almost  afraid  to  think  about  it, 
and  hoped  the  young  man  would  be  let 
off.  When  I heard  ’em  say  they  had 
found  him  guilty  of  what  he  didn’t  do, 
you  was  gone,  and  so  was  the  lodger,  — 
though  I think  I should  have  been 
frightened  to  tell  him,  even  if  he ’d 
been  there.  Ever  since  I come  here, 
you’ve  been  out  of  your  senses,  and 
what  would  have  been  the  good  of 
telling  you  then  ? ” 

“ Marchioness,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
plucking  off  his  nightcap  and  flinging  it 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room  ; “ if  you  ’ll 
do  me  the  favor  to  retire  for  a few  min- 
utes and  see  what  sort  of  a night  it  is, 
I ’ll  get  up.” 

“ You  must  n’t  think  of  such  a thing,” 
cried  his  nurse. 

“ I must  indeed,”  said  the  patient, 
looking  round  the  room.  “ Where- 
abouts are  my  clothes  ? ” 

“ O,  I’m  so  glad  — you  haven’t  got 
any,”  replied  the  Marchioness. 

“ Ma’am  ! ” said  Mr.  Swiveller,  in 
great  astonishment. 

“I’ve  been  obliged  to  sell  them, 
every  one,  to  get  the  things  that  was 
ordered  for  you.  But  don’t  take  on 
about  that,”  urged  the  Marchioness, 
as  Dick  fell  back  upon  his  pillow. 
“You’re  too  weak  to  stand,  indeed.” 

“ I am  afraid,”  said  Richard,  dole- 
fully, “ that  you  ’re  right.  What  ought 
I to  do?  what  is  to  be  done?” 

It  naturally  occurred  to  him,  on  very 
little  reflection,  that  the  first  step  to 
take  would  be  to  communicate  with 
one  of  the  Mr.  Garlands  instantly. 
It  was  very  possible  that  Mr.  Abel 
had  not  yet  left  the  office.  In  as  little 


time  as  it  takes  to  tell  it,  the  small 
servant  had  the  address  in  pencil  on 
a piece  of  paper  ; a verbal  description 
of  father  and  son,  which  would  enable 
her  to  recognize  either  without  diffi- 
culty ; and  a special  caution  to  be  shy 
of  Mr.  Chuckster,  in  consequence  of 
that  gentleman’s  known  antipathy  to 
Kit.  Armed  with  these  slender  pow- 
ers, she  hurried  away,  commissioned  to 
bring  either  old  Mr.  Garland  or  Mr. 
Abel,  bodily,  to  that  apartment. 

“ I suppose,”  said  Dick,  as  she 
closed  the  door  slowly,  and  peeped 
into  the  room  again,  to  make  sure  that  he 
was  comfortable,  — “I  suppose  there ’s 
nothing  left,  — not  so  much  as  a waist- 
coat, even?” 

“ No,  nothing.” 

“It ’s  embarrassing,”  said  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller, “in  case  of  fire — .even  an  um- 
brella would  be  something  — but  you 
did  quite  right,  dear  Marchioness.  I 
should  have  died  without  you  ! ” 


CHAPTER  LXV. 

It  was  well  for  the  small  servant  that 
she  was  of  a sharp,  quick  nature,  or  the 
consequence  of  sending  her  out  alone 
from  the  very  neighborhood  in  which 
it  was  most  dangerous  for  her  to  appear 
would  probably  have  been  the  restora- 
tion of  Miss  Sally  Brass  to  the  supreme 
authority  over  her  person.  Not  un- 
mindful of  the  risk  she  ran,  however, 
the  Marchioness  no  sooner  left  the 
house  than  she  dived  into  the  first  dark 
by-way  that  presented  itself,  and,  with- 
out any  present  reference  to  the  point 
to  which  her  journey  tended,  made  it 
her  first  business  to  put  two  good  miles 
of  brick  and  mortar  between  herself 
and  Be  vis  Marks. 

When  she  had  accomplished  this 
object,  she  began  to  shape  her  course 
for  the  notary’s  office,  to  which  — 
shrewdly  inquiring  of  apple-women  and 
oyster-sellers  at  street  corners,  rather 
than  in  lighted  shops  or  of  well-dressed 
people,  at  the  hazard  of  attracting  no- 
tice— she  easily  procured  a direction. 
As  carrier-pigeons,  on  being  first  let 
loose  in  a strange  plSce,  beat  the  air 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


279 


at  random  for  a short  time,  before  dart- 
ing off  towards  the  spot  for  which  they 
are  designed,  so  did  the  Marchioness 
flutter  round  and  round  until  she  be- 
lieved herself  in  safety,  and  then  bear 
swiftly  down  upon  the  port  for  which 
she  was  bound. 

She  had  no  bonnet,  — nothing  on  her 
head  but  a great  cap,  which,  in  some 
old  time,  had  been  worn  by  Sally  Brass, 
whose  taste  in  head-dresses  was,  as  we 
have  seen,  peculiar, — and  her  speed 
was  rather  retarded  than  assisted  by  her 
shoes,  which,  being  extremely  large  and 
slipshod,  flew  off  every  now  and  then, 
and  were  difficult  to  find  again  among 
the  crowd  of  passengers.  Indeed,  the 
poor  little  creature  experienced  so  much 
troub^p  and  delay  from  having  to  grope 
for  these  articles  of  dress  in  mud  and 
kennel,  and  suffered  in  these  research- 
es so  much  jostling,  pushing,  squeez- 
ing, and  bandying  from  hand  to  hand, 
that,  by  the  time  she  reached  the  street 
in  which  the  notary  lived,  she  was  fair- 
ly worn  out  and  exhausted,  and  could 
not  refrain  from  tears. 

But  to  have  got  there  at  last  was  a 
great  comfort,  especially  as  there  were 
lights  still  burning  in  the  office  window, 
and  therefore  some  hope  that  she  was 
not  toolate;  So  the  Marchioness  dried 
her  eyes  with  the  backs  of  her  hands, 
and,  stealing  softly  up  the  steps,  peeped 
in  through  the  glass  door. 

Mr.  Chuckster  was  standing  behind 
the  lid  of  his  desk,  making  such  prep- 
arations towards  finishing  off  for  the 
night  as  pulling  down  his  wristbands, 
and  pulling  up  his  shirt-collar, , settling 
his  neck  more  gracefully  in  his  stock, 
and  secretly  arranging  his  whiskers  by 
the  aid  of  a little  triangular  bit  of  look- 
ing-glass. Before  the  ashes  of  the  fire 
stood  two  gentlemen,  one  of  whom  she 
rightly  judged  to  be  the  notary,  and 
the  other  (who  was  buttoning  his  great- 
coat, and  was  evidently  about  to  depart 
immediately),  Mr.  Abel  Garland. 

Having  made  these  observations,  the 
small  spy  took  counsel  with  herself,  and 
resolved  to  wait  in  the  street  until  Mr. 
Abel  came  out,  as  there  would  be  then 
no  fear  of  having  to  speak  before  Mr. 
Chuckster,  and  less  difficulty  in  deliv- 
ering her  message.  With  this  purpose 


she  slipped  out  again,  and,  crossing 
the  road,  sat  down  upon  a door-step 
just  opposite. 

She  had  hardly  taken  this  position, 
when  there  came  dancing  u^>  the  street, 
with  his  legs  all  wrong,  and  his  head 
everywhere  by  turns,  a pony.  This 
pony  had  a little  phaeton  behind  him 
and  a man  in  it  ; but  neither  man  nor 
phaeton  seemed  to  embarrass  him  in 
the  least,  as  he  reared  up  on  his  hind 
legs,  or  stopped,  or  went  on,  or  stood 
still  again,  or  backed,  or  went  sideways, 
without  the  smallest  reference  to  them, 
— just  as  the  fancy  seized  him,  and  as 
if  he  were  the  freest  animal  in  creation. 
When  they  came  to  the  notary’s  door, 
the  man  called  out  in  a very  respect- 
ful manner,  “ Woa  then,” — intimating 
that,  if  he  might  venture  to  express  a 
wish,  it  would  be  that  they  stopped 
there.  The  pony  made  a moment’s 
pause  ; but,  as  if  it  occurred  to  him 
that  to  stop  when  he  was  required  might 
be  to  establish  an  inconvenient  and 
dangerous  precedent,  he  immediately 
started  off  again,  rattled  at  a fast  trot 
to  the  street  corner,  wheeled  round, 
came  back,  and  then  stopped  of  his 
own  accord. 

“ O,  you  ’re  a precious  creatur  ! ” said 
the  man,  — who  did  n’t  venture,  by 
the  by,  to  come  out  in  his  true  colors 
until  he  was  safe  on  the  pavement. 
“ I wish  I had  the  rewarding  of  you, — 
I do.” 

“What  has  he  been  doing?”  said 
Mr.  Abel,  tying  a shawl  round  his  neck 
as  he  came  down  the  steps. 

“ He ’s  enough  to  fret  a man’s  heart 
out,”  replied  the  hostler.  “He  is  the 
most  wicious  rascal  — Woa  then,  will 
you  ? ” 

“ He  ’ll  never  stand  still,  if  you  call 
him  names,”  said  Mr.  Abel,  getting  in, 
and  taking  the  reins.  “ He ’s  a very 
good  fellow  if  you  know  how  to  manage 
him.  This  is  the  first  time  he  has  been 
out,  this  long  while,  for  he  has  lost  his 
old  driver  and  would  n’t  stir  for  any- 
body else,  till  this  morning.  The  lamps 
are  right,  are  they  ? That ’s  well.  Be 
here  to  take  him  to-morrow,  if  you 
please.  Good  night ! ” 

And,  after  one  or  two  strange  plunges, 
quite  of  his  own  invention,  the  pony 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


280 

yielded  to  Mr.  Abel’s  mildness,  and 
trotted  gently  off. 

All  this  time  Mr.  Chuckster  had  been 
standing  aj  the  door,  and  the  small  ser- 
vant had  been  afraid  to  approach.  She 
had  nothing  for  it  now,  therefore,  but  to 
run  after  the  chaise,  and  to  call  to  Mr. 
Abel  to  stop.  Being  out  of  breath  when 
she  came  up  with  it,  she  was  unable  to 
make  him  hear.  The  case  was  desper- 
ate ; for  the  pony  was  quickening  his 
ace.  The  Marchioness  hung  on  be- 
ind  for  a few  moments,  and,  feeling 
that  she  could  go  no  farther,  and  must 
soon  yield,  clambered  by  a vigorous 
effort  into  the  hinder  seat,  and  in  so 
doing  lost  one  of  the  shoes  forever. 

Mr.  Abel,  being  in  a thoughtful  frame 
of  mind,  and  having  quite  enough  to  do 
to  keep  the  pony  going,  went  jogging  on 
without  looking  round,  — little  dream- 
ing of  the  strange  figure  that  was  close 
behind  him,  until  the  Marchioness, 
having  in  some  degree  recovered  her 
breath,  and  the  loss  of  her  shoe,  and 
the  novelty  of  her  position,  uttered  close 
into  his  ear  the  words,  — 

“ I say,  sir  — ” 

He  turned  his  head  quickly  enough 
then,  and,  stopping  the  pony,  cried,  with 
some  trepidation,  “ God  bless  me,  what 
is  this  ! ” 

“Don’t  be  frightened,  sir,”  replied 
the  still  panting  messenger.  “ O,  I ’ve 
run  such  a way  after  you  ! ” 

“ What  do  you  want  with  me  ? ” said 
Mr.  Abel.  “ How  did  you  come  here?  ” 
“ I got  in  behind,”  replied  the  Mar- 
chioness. “ O,  please  drive  on,  sir,  — 
don’t  stop,  — and  go  towards  the  city, 
will  you?  And  O,  do  please  make 
haste,  because  it ’s  of  consequence. 
There ’s  somebody  wants  to  see  you 
there.  He  sent  me  to  say  would  you 
come  directly,  and  that  he  knowed  all 
about  Kit,  and  could  save  him  yet,  and 
prove  his  innocence.” 

“ What  do  you  tell  me,  child?  ” 

“The  truth,  upon  my  word  and  hon- 
or, .1  do.  But  please  to  drive  on,  — 
quick,  please  ! I ’ve  been  such  a time 
gone,  he  ’ll  think  I ’m  lost.” 

Mr.  Abel  involuntarily  urged  the  po- 
ny forward.  The  pony,  impelled  by 
some  secret  sympathy  or  some  new  ca- 
price, burst  into  a great  pace,  and  nei- 


ther slackened  it,  nor  indulged  in  any  ec- 
centric performances,  until  they  arrived 
at  the  door  of  Mr.  Swiveller’s  lodging, 
where,  marvellous  to  relate,  he  consent- 
ed to  stop  when  Mr.  Abel  checked  him. 

“See!  It’s  that  room  up  there,” 
said  the  Marchioness,  pointing  to  one 
where  there  was  a faint  light.  “ Come  ! ” 

Mr.  Abel,  who  was  one  of  the  sim- 
plest and  most  retiring  creatures  in  ex- 
istence, and  naturally  timid  withal,  hes- 
itated ; for  he  had  heard  of  people  being 
decoyed  into  strange  places  to  be  robbed 
and  murdered,  under  circumstances  very 
like  the  present,  and,  for  anything  he 
knew  to  the  contrary,  by  guides  very 
like  the  Marchioness.  His  regard  for 
Kit,  however,  overcame  every  other 
consideration.  So,  intrusting  Whisker 
to  the  charge  of  a man  who  was  linger- 
ing hard  by  in  expectation  of  the  job, 
he  suffered  his  companion  to  take  his 
hand,  and  to  lead  him  up  the  dark  and 
narrow  stairs. 

He  was  not  a little  surprised  to  find 
himself  conducted  into  a dimly  lighted 
sick-chamber,  where  a man  was  sleep- 
ing tranquilly  in  bed. 

“ Ain’t  it  nice  to  see  him  lying  there 
so  quiet  ? ” said  his  guide,  in  an  earnest 
whisper.  “ O,  you ’d  say  it  was,  if  you 
had  only  seen  him  two  or  three  days 
ago.” 

Mr.  Abel  made  no  answer,  and,  to 
say  the  truth,  kept  a long  way  from  the 
bed  and  very  near  the  door.  His  guide, 
who  appeared  to  understand  his  reluc- 
tance, trimmed  the  candle,  and,  taking 
it  in  her  hand,  approached  the  bed.  As 
she  did  so,  the  sleeper  started  up,  and 
he  recognized  in  the  wasted  face  the 
features  of  Richard  Swiveller. 

“ Why,  how  is  this?  ” said  Mr.  Abel, 
kindly,  as  he  hurried  towards  him. 
“ You  have  been  ill  ? ” 

“ Very,”  replied  Dick.  “Nearly  dead. 
You  might  have  chanced  to  hear  of  your 
Richard  on  his  bier,  but  for  the  friend  I 
sent  to  fetch  you.  Another  shake  of  the 
hand,  Marchioness,  if  you  please.  Sit 
down,  sir.” 

Mr.  Abel  seemed  rather  astonished  to 
hear  of  the  quality  of  his  guide,  and  took 
a chair  by  the  bedside.” 

“ I have  sent  for  you,  sir,”  said  Dick, 
— “ but  she  told  you  on  what  account  ?* 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“ She  did.  I am  quite  bewildered  by 
all  this.  I really  don’t  know  what  to 
say  or  think,”  replied  Mr.  Abel. 

“ You  ’ll  say  that  presently,”  retorted 
Dick.  “ Marchioness,  take  a seat  on 
the  bed,  will  you  ? Now,  tell  this  gen- 
tleman all  that  you  told  me  ; and  be 
particular.  Don’t  you  speak  another 
word,  sir.” 

The  story  was  repeated.  It  was,  in  ef- 
fect, exactly  the  same  as  before,  without 
any  deviation  or  omission.  Richard 
Swiveller  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  his 
visitor  during  its  narration,  and  direct- 
ly it  was  concluded,  took  the  word 
again. 

“You  have  heard  it  all,  and  you’ll 
not  forget  it.  I ’m  too  giddy  and  too 
queer  to  suggest  anything ; but  you 
and  your  friends  will  know  what  to  do. 
After  this  long  delay,  every  minute  is 
an  age.  If  ever  you  went  home  fast 
in  your  life,  go  home  fast  to-night. 
Don’t  stop  to  say  one  word  to  me, 
but  go.  She  will  be  found  here,  when- 
ever she ’s  wanted ; and  as  to  me, 
you  ’re  pretty  sure  to  find  me  at  home, 
for  a week  or  two.  There  are  more 
reasons  than  one  for  that.  Marchioness, 
a light  ! If  you  lose  another  minute 
in  looking  at  me,  sir,  I ’ll  never  forgive 
you  ! ” 

Mr.  Abel  needed  no  more  remon- 
strance or  persuasion.  He  was  gone 
in  an  instant ; and  the  Marchioness, 
returning  from  lighting  him  down  stairs, 
reported  that  the  pony,  without  any  pre- 
liminary objection  whatever,  had  dashed 
away  at  full  gallop. 

“That’s  right!”  said  Dick;  “and 
hearty  of  him  ; and  I honor  him  from 
this  time.  But  get  some  supper  and 
a mug  of  beer,  for  I am  sure  you  must 
be  tired.  Do  have  a mug  of  beer.  It 
will  do  me  as  much  good  to  see  you 
take  it  as  if  I mi^ht  drink  it  myself.” 

Nothing  but  this  assurance  could  have 
prevailed  upon  the  small  nurse  to  in- 
dulge in  such  a luxury.  Having  eaten 
and  drunk  to  Mr.  Swiveller’s  extreme 
contentment,  given  him  his  drink,  and 
put  everything  in  neat  order,  she 
wrapped  herself  in  an  old  coverlet  and 
lay  down  upon  the  rug  before  the  fire. 

Mr.  Swiveller  was  by  that  time  mur- 
muring in  his  sleep,  “ Strew  then,  O 


281 

strew,  a bed  of  rushes.  Here  will  we 
stay  till  morning  blushes.  Good  night, 
Marchioness  ! ” 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 

On  awaking  in  the  morning,  Richard 
Swiveller  became  conscious,  by  slow 
degrees,  of  whispering  voices  in  his 
room.  Looking  out  between  the  cur- 
tains, he  espied  Mr.  Garland,  Mr.  Abel, 
the  notary,  and  the  single  gentleman, 
gathered  round  the  Marchioness,  and 
talking  to  her  with  great  earnestness 
but  in  very  subdued  tones,  — fearing, 
no  doubt,  to  disturb  him.  He  lost  no 
time  in  letting  them  know  that  this 
precaution  was  unnecessary,  and  all 
four  gentlemen  directly  approached  his 
bedside.  Old  Mr.  Garland  was  the 
first  to  stretch  out  his  hand  and  inquire 
how  he  felt. 

Dick  was  about  to  answer  that  he  felt 
much  better,  though  still  as  weak  as 
need  be,  when  his  little  nurse,  pushing 
the  visitors  aside  and  pressing  up  to  his 
pillow  as  if  in  jealousy  of  their  interfer- 
ence, set  his  breakfast  before  him,  and 
insisted  on  his  taking  it  before  he  un- 
derwent the  fatigue  of  speaking  or  of 
being  spoken  to.  Mr.  Swiveller,  who 
was  perfectly  ravenous,  and  had  had, 
all  night,  amazingly  distinct  and  con- 
sistent dreams  of  mutton-chops,  double 
stout,  and  similar  delicacies,  felt  even 
the  weak  tea  and  dry  toast  such  irre- 
sistible temptations  that  he  consented 
to  eat  and  drink  on  one  condition. 

“And  that  is,”  said  Dick,  returning 
the  pressure  of  Mr.  Garland’s  hand, 
“ that  you  answer  me  this  question  truty, 
before  I take  a bit  or  drop.  Is  it  too 
late  ? ” 

“ For  completing  the  work  you  be- 
gan so  well  last  night?”  returned  the 
old  gentleman.  “ No.  Set  your  mind 
at  rest  on  that  point.  It  is  not,  I as- 
sure you.” 

Comforted  by  this  intelligence,  the 
patient  applied  himself  to  his  food  with 
a keen  appetite,  though  evidently  not 
with  a greater  zest  in  the  eating  than 
his  nurse  appeared  to  have  in  seeing 
him  eat.  The  manner  of  his  meal  was 
this  : — Mr.  Swiveller,  holding  the  slice 


2$2 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


of  toast  or  cup  of  tea  in  his  left  hand, 
and  taking  a bite  or  drink,  as  the  case 
might  be,  constantly  kept  in  his  right 
one  palm  of  the  Marchioness  tight 
locked  ; and  to  shake  or  even  to  kiss 
this  imprisoned  hand,  he  would  stop 
every  now  and  then,  in  the  very  act  of 
swallowing,  with  perfect  seriousness  of 
intention,  and  the  utmost  gravity.  As 
often  as  he  put  anything  into  his  mouth, 
whether  for  eating  or  drinking,  the  face 
of  the  Marchioness  lighted  up  beyond 
all  description  ; but  whenever  he  gave 
her  one  or  other  of  these  tokens  of 
recognition,  her  countenance  became 
overshadowed,  and  she  began  to  sob. 
Now,  whether  she  was  in  her  laughing 
joy,  or  in  her  crying  one,  the  Marchio- 
ness could  not  help  turning  to  the  vis- 
itors with  an  appealing  look,  which 
seemed  to  say,  “ You  see  this  fellow,  — 
can  I help  this?”  And  they,  being 
thus  made,  as  it  were,  parties  to  the 
scene,  as  regularly  answered  by  anoth- 
er look,  “ No.  Certainly  not.”  This 
dumb-show  taking  place  during  the 
whole  time  of  the  invalid’s  breakfast, 
and  the  invalid  himself,  pale  and  ema- 
ciated, performing  no  small  part  in  the 
same,  it  may  be  fairly  questioned  wheth- 
er at  any  meal,  where  no  word,  good  or 
bad,  was  spoken  from  beginning  to  end, 
so  much  was  expressed  by  gestures  in 
themselves  so  slight  and  unimportant. 

At  length  — and  to  say  the  truth  be- 
fore very  long — Mr.  Swiveller  had  de- 
spatched as  much  toast  and  tea  as  in 
that  stage  of  his  recovery  it  was  dis- 
creet to  let  him  have.  But  the  cares 
of  the  Marchioness  did  not  stop  here  ; 
for,  disappearing  for  an  instant  and 
presently  returning  with  a basin  of  fair 
water,  she  laved  his  face  and  hands, 
brushed  his  hair,  and  in  short  made  him 
as  spruce  and  smart  as  anybody  under 
such  circumstances  could  be  made  ; and 
all  this  in  as  brisk  and  business-like  a 
manner  as  if  he  were  a very  little  boy, 
and  she  his  grown-up  nurse.  To  these 
various  attentions  Mr.  Swiveller  sub- 
mitted in  a kind  of  grateful  astonish- 
ment, beyond  the  reach  of  language. 
When  they  were  at  last  brought  to  an 
end,  and  the  Marchioness  had  with- 
drawn into  a distant  corner  to  take  her 
own  poor  breakfast  (cold  enough  by  that 


time),  he  turned  his  face  away  for  some 
few  moments,  and  shook  hands  heartily 
with  the  air. 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  Dick,  rousing 
himself  from  this  pause,  and  turning 
round  again,  “you  ’ll  excuse  me.  Men 
who  have  been  brought  so  low  as  I 
have  been  are  easily  fatigued.  I am 
fresh  again  now,  and  fit  for  talking. 
We  ’re  short  of  chairs  here,  among  other 
trifles,  but  if  you  ’ll  do  me  the  favor  to 
sit  upon  the  bed  — ” 

“What  can  we  do  for  you?”  said 
Mr.  Garland,  kindly. 

“If you  could  make  the  Marchioness 
yonder  a Marchioness  in  real,  sober 
earnest,”  returned  Dick,  “ I ’d  thank 
you  to  get  it  done  off-hand.  But  as  you 
can’t,  and  as  the  question  is  not  what 
you  will  do  for  me,  but  what  you  will 
do  for  somebody  else  who  has  a better 
claim  upon  you,  pray,  sir,  let  me  know 
what  you  intend  doing.” 

“ It ’s  chiefly  on  that  account  that  we 
have  come  just  now,”  said  the  single 
gentleman,  “for  you  will  have  another 
visitor  presently.  We  feared  you  would 
be  anxious  unless  you  knew  from  our- 
selves what  steps  we  intended  to  take, 
and  therefore  came  to  you  before  we 
stirred  in  the  matter.” 

“ Gentlemen,”  returned  Dick,  “ I 
thank  you.  Anybody  in  the  helpless 
state  that  you  see  me  in  is  naturally 
anxious.  Don’t  let  me  interrupt  you, 
sir.” 

“Then,  you  see,  my  good  fellow,” 
said  the  single  gentleman,  “ that  while 
we  have  no  doubt  whatever  of  the  truth 
of  this  disclosure,  which  has  so  provi- 
dentially come  to  light  — ” 

“ Meaning  hers  ? ” said  Dick,  point- 
ing towards  the  Marchioness. 

“ Meaning-hers,  of  course.  While 
we  have  no  doubt  of  that,  or  that  a 
proper  use  of  it  would  procure  the  poor 
lad’s  immediate  pardon  and  liberation, 
we  have  a great  doubt  whether  it  would, 
by  itself,  enable  us  to  reach  Quilp,  the 
chief  agent  in  this  villany.  I should 
tell  you  that  this  doubt  has  been  con- 
firmed into  something  very  nearly  ap- 
proaching certainty  by  the  best  opinions 
we  have  been  enabled,  in  this  short 
space  of  time,  to  take  upon  the  subject. 
You’ll  agree  with  us,  that  to  give  him 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


283 


even  the  most  distant  chance  of  escape, 
if  we  could  help  it,  would  be  monstrous. 
You  say  with  us,  no  doubt,  if  somebody 
must  escape,  let  it  be  any  one  but  he.” 
“Yes,”  returned  Dick,  “certainly. 
That  is,  if  somebody  must ; but  upon 
my  word,  I ’m  unwilling  that  anybody 
should.  Since  laws  were  made  for  ev- 
ery degree,  to  curb  vice  in  others  as  well 
as  in  me,  — and  so  forth,  you  know, 

— does  n’t  it  strike  you  in  that  light  ? ” 
The  single  gentleman  smiled  as  if  the 

light  in  which  Mr.  Swiveller  had  put 
the  question  v%re  not  the  clearest  in 
the  world,  and  proceeded  to  explain 
that  they  contemplated  proceeding  by 
stratagem  in  the  first  instance  ; and  that 
their  design  was,  to  endeavor  to  extort 
a confession  from  the  gentle  Sarah. 

“ When  she  finds  how  much  we  know, 
and  how  we  know  it,”  he  said,  “and 
that  she  is  clearly  compromised  already, 
we  are  not  without  strong  hopes  that 
we  may  be  enabled  through  her  means 
to  punish  the  other  two  effectually.  If 
we  could  do  that,  she  might  go  scot-free 
for  aught  I cared.” 

Dick  received  this  project  in  anything 
but  a gracious  manner,  representing, 
with  as  much  warmth  as  he  was  then 
capable  of  showing,  that  they  would  find 
the  old  buck  (meaning  Sarah)  more 
difficult  to  manage  than  Quilp  himself, 

— that,  for  any  tampering,  terrifying,  or 
cajolery,  she  was  a very  unpromising 
and  unyielding  subject,  — that  she  was 
of  a kind  of  brass  not  easily  melted  or 
moulded  into  shape, — in  short,  that 
they  were  no  match  for  her,  and  would 
be  signally  defeated.  But  it  was  in 
vain  to  urge  them  to  adopt  some  other 
course.  The  single  gentleman  has  been 
described  as  explaining  their  joint  in- 
tentions, but  it  should  have  been  written 
that  they  all  spoke  together ; that  if  any 
one  of  them  by  chance  held  his  peace 
for  a moment,  he  stood  gasping  and 
panting  for  an  opportunity  to  strike  in 
again ; in  a word,  that  they  had  reached 
that  pitch  of  impatience  and  anxiety 
where  men  can  neither  be  persuaded 
nor  reasoned  with ; and  that  it  would 
have  been  as  easy  to  turn  the  most  im- 
petuous wind  that  ever  blew,  as  to  pre- 
vail on  them  to  reconsider  their  deter- 
mination. So,  after  telling  Mr.  Swivel- 


ler how  they  had  not  lost  sight  of  Kit’s 
mother  and  the  children ; how  they  had 
never  once  even  lost  sight  of  Kit  him- 
self, but  had  been  unremitting  in  their 
endeavors  to  procure  a mitigation  of  his 
sentence  ; how  they  had  been  perfectly 
distracted  between  the  strong  proofs  of 
his  guilt  and  their  own  fading  hopes  of 
his  innocence  ; and  how  he,  Richard 
Swiveller,  might  keep  his  mind  at  rest, 
for  everything  should  be  happily  ad- 
justed between  that  time  and  night;  — 
after  telling  him  all  this,  and  adding  a 
great  many  kind  and  cordial  expres- 
sions, personal  to  himself,  which  it  is 
unnecessary  to  recite,  Mr.  Garland,  the 
notary,  and  the  single  gentleman  took 
their  leaves  at  a very  critical  time,  or 
Richard  Swiveller  must  assuredly  have 
been  driven  into  another  fever,  whereof 
the  results  might  have  been  fatal. 

Mr.  Abel  remained  behind,  very  often 
looking  at  his  watch  and  at  the  room 
door,  until  Mr.  Swiveller  was  roused 
from  a short  nap  by  the  setting-down 
on  the  landing-place  outside,  as  from 
the  shoulders  of  a porter,  of  some  giant 
load,  which  seemed  to  shake  the  house, 
and  make  the  little  physic  bottles  on 
the  mantel-shelf  ring  again.  Directly 
this  sound  reached  his  ears,  Mr.  Abel 
started  up,  and  hobbled  to  the  door, 
and  opened  it ; and  behold  ! there  stood 
a strong  man,  with  a mighty  hamper, 
which,  being  hauled  into  the  room  and 
presently  unpacked,  disgorged  such 
treasures  of  tea,  and  coffee,  and  wine, 
and  rusks,  and  oranges,  and  grapes, 
and  fowls  ready  trussed  for  boiling, 
and  calves’-foot  jelly,  and  arrow-root, 
and  sago,  and  other  delicate  restora- 
tives, that  the  small  servant,  who  had 
never  thought  it  possible  that  such 
things  could  be,  except  in  shops,  stood 
rooted  to  the  spot  in  her  one  shoe,  with 
her  mouth  and  eyes  watering  in  unison, 
and  her  power  of  speech  quite  gone. 
But  not  so  Mr.  Abel ; or  the  strong 
man  who  emptied  the  hamper,  big  as  it 
was,  in  a twinkling;  and  not  so  the 
nice  old  lady,  who  appeared  so  suddenly 
that  she  might  have  come  out  of  the 
hamper  too  (it  was  quite  large  enough), 
and  who,  bustling  about  on  tiptoe  and 
without  noise,  — now  here,  now  there, 
now  everywhere  at  once,  — began  to  fill 


284 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


out  the  jelly  in  teacups,  and  to  make 
chicken-broth  in  small  saucepans,  and 
to  peel  oranges  for  the  sick  man,  and  to 
cut  them  up  in  little  pieces,  and  to  ply 
the  small  servant  with  glasses  of  wine 
and  choice  bits  of  everything,  until  more 
substantial  meat  could  be  prepared  for 
her  refreshment.  The  whole  of  which 
appearances  were  so  unexpected  and  be- 
wildering, that  Mr.  Swiveller,  when  he 
had  taken  two  oranges  and  a little  jelly, 
and  had  seen  the  strong  man  walk  off 
with  the  empty  basket,  plainly  leaving 
all  that  abundance  for  his  use  and  ben- 
efit, was  fain  to  lie  down  and  fall  asleep 
again,  from  sheer  inability  to  entertain 
such  wonders  in  his  mind. 

Meanwhile  the  single  gentleman,  the 
notary,  and  Mr.  Garland  repaired  to  a 
certain  coffee-house,  and  from  that  place 
indited  and  sent  a letter  to  Miss  Sally 
Brass,  requesting  her,  in  terms  myste- 
rious and  brief,  to  favor  an  unknown 
friend,  who  wished  to  consult  her,  with 
her  company  there,  as  speedily  as  possi- 
ble. The  communication  performed  its 
errand  so  well  that  within  ten  minutes 
of  the  messenger’s  return  and  report  of 
its  delivery,  Miss  Brass  herself  was  an- 
nounced. 

“Pray,  ma’am,”  said  the  single  gen- 
tleman, whom  she  found  alone  in  the 
room,  “take  a chair.” 

Miss  Brass  sat  herself  down  in  a very 
stiff  and  frigid  state,  and  seemed  — as 
indeed  she  was  — not  a little  astonished 
to  find  that  the  lodger  and  her  myste- 
rious correspondent  were  one  and  the 
same  person. 

“You  did  not  expect  to  see  me?” 
said  the  single  gentleman. 

“I  didn’t  think  much  about  it,” 
returned  the  beauty.  “ I supposed  it 
was  business  of  some  kind  or  other. 
If  it ’s  about  the  apartments,  of  course 
you  ’ll  give  my  brother  regular  notice, 
you  know,  — or  money.  That ’s  very 
easily  settled.  You  ’re  a responsible 
part:  d in  such  a case  lawful  money 

and  ia  ' .ul  notice  are  pretty  much  the 
same.” 

“Iam  obliged  to  you  for  your  good 
opinion,”  retorted  the  single  gentleman, 
“and  quite  concur  in  those  sentiments. 
But  that  is  not  the  subject  on  which  I 
wish  to  speak  with  you.” 


“ Oh  ! ” said  Sally.  “ Then  just  state 
the  particulars,  will  you?  I suppose 
it ’s  professional  business  ? ” 

“Why,  it  is  connected  with  the  law, 
certainly.” 

“Very  well,”  returned  Miss  Brass. 
“ My  brother  and  I are  just  the  same. 
I can  take  any  instructions  or  give  you 
any  advice.” 

“ As  there  are  other  parties  interested 
besides  myself,”  said  the  single  gentle- 
man, rising  and  opening  the  door  of 
an  inner  room,  “ we  had  better  confer 
together.  Miss  Brass*  is  here,  gentle- 
men ! ” 

Mr.  Garland  and  the  notary  walked 
in,  looking  very  grave  ; and,  drawing 
up  two  chairs,  one  on  each  side  of  the 
single  gentleman,  formed  a kind  of  fence 
round  the  gentle  Sarah,  and  penned 
her  into  a corner.  Her  brother  Samp- 
son under  such  circumstances  would 
certainly  have  evinced  some  confusion 
or  anxiety,  but  she  — all  composure  — 
pulled  out  the  tin  box  and  calmly  took 
a pinch  of  snuff. 

“Miss  Brass,”  said  the  notary,  tak- 
ing the  word  at  this  crisis,  “ we  profes- 
sional people  understand  each  other, 
and,  when  we  choose,  can  say  what  we 
have  to  say  in  very  few  words.  You 
advertised  a runaway  servant,  the  other 
day?” 

“Well,”  returned  Miss  Sally,  with  a 
sudden  flush  overspreading  her  features, 
“ what  of  that  ? ” 

“ She  is  found,  ma’am,”  said  the 
notary,  pulling  out  his  pocket-hand- 
kerchief with  a flourish.  “ She  is 
found.” 

“ Who  found  her?  ” demanded  Sarah, 
hastily. 

“ We  did,  ma’am,  — we  three.  Only 
last  night,  or  you  would  have  heard 
from  us  before.” 

“ And  now  I have  heard  from  you,” 
said  Miss  Brass,  folding  her  arms  as 
though  she  were  about  to  deny  something 
to  the  death,  “what  have  you  got  to 
say?  Something  you  have  got  into  your 
heads  about  her,  of  course.  Prove  it, 
will  you, — that’s  all.  Trove  it.  You 
have  found  her,  you  say.  I can  tell  you 
(if  you  don’t  know  it)  that  you  have 
found  the  most  artful,  lying,  pilfering, 
devilish  little  minx  that  was  ever  born. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


285 


Have  you  got  her  here?”  she  added, 
looking  sharply  round. 

“ No,  she  is  not  here  at  present,”  re- 
turned the  notary.  “But  she  is  quite 
safe.” 

“ Ha  ! ” cried  Sally,  twitching  a pinch 
of  snuff  out  of  her  box  as  spitefully  as 
if  she  were  in  the  very  act  of  wrenching 
off  the  small  servant’s  nose  ; “ she  shall 
be  safe  enough  from  this  time,  I war- 
rant you.” 

“I  hope  so,”  replied  the  notary. 
“ Did  it  occur  to  you  for  the  first  time, 
when  you  found  she  had  run  away,  that 
there  were  two  keys  to  your  kitchen 
door? ” 

Miss  Sally  took  another  pinch,  and, 
putting  her  head  on  one  side,  looked  at 
her  questioner,  with  a curious  kind  of 
spasm  about  her  mouth,  but  with  a cun- 
ning aspect  of  immense  expression. 

“Two  keys,”  repeated  the  notary; 
“ one  of  which  gave  her  the  opportuni- 
ties of  roaming  through  the  house  at 
nights  when  you  supposed  her  fast  locked 
up,  and  of  overhearing  confidential  con- 
sultations, — among  others,  that  particu- 
lar conference,  to  be  described  to-day 
before  a justice,  which  you  will  have  an 
opportunity  of  hearing  her  relate  ; that 
conference  which  you  and  Mr.  Brass 
held  together,  on  the  night  before  that 
most  unfortunate  and  innocent  young 
man  was  accused  of  robbery,  by  a horri- 
ble device  of  which  I will  only  say  that 
it  may  be  characterized  by  the  epithets 
you  have  applied  to  this  wretched  little 
witness,  and  by  a few  stronger  ones  be- 
sides.” 

Sally  took  another  pinch.  Although 
her  face  was  wonderfully  composed,  it 
was  apparent  that  she  was  wholly  taken 
by  surprise,  and  that  what  she  had  ex- 
pected to  be  taxed  with,  in  connection 
with  her  small  servant,  was  something 
very  different  from  this. 

“Come,  come,  Miss  Brass,”  said  the 
notary,  “ you  have  great  command  of 
feature,  but  you  feel,  I see,  that  by  a 
chance  which  never  entered  your  imagi- 
nation, this  base  design  is  revealed,  and 
two  of  its  plotters  must  be  brought 
to  justice.  Now,  you  know  the  pains 
and  penalties  you  are  liable  to,  and  so  I 
need  not  dilate  upon  them,  but  I have 
a proposal  to  make  to  you.  You  have 


the  honor  of  being  sister  to  one  of  the 
greatest  scoundrels  unhung  ; and  if  I 
may  venture  to  say  so  to  a lady,  you  are 
in  every  respect  quite  worthy  of  him. 
But,  connected  with  you  two  is  a third 
party,  a villain  of  the  name  of  Quilp, 
the  prime  mover  of  the  whole  diabolical 
device,  who  I believe  to  be  worse  than 
either.  For  his  sake,  Miss  Brass,  do  us 
the  favor  to  reveal  the  whole  history 
of  this  affair.  Let  me  remind  you  that 
your  doing  so,  at  our  instance,  will  place 
you  in  a safe  and  comfortable  position, 
— your  present  one  is  not  desirable,  — 
and  cannot  injure  your  brother ; for 
against  him  and  you  we  have  quite  suf- 
ficient evidence  (as  you  hear)  already. 
I will  not  say  to  you  that  we  suggest 
this  course  in  mercy  (for  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  we  do  not  entertain  any  regard 
for  you),  but  it  is  a necessity  to  which 
we  are  reduced,  and  I recommend  it  to 
you  as  a matter  of  the  very  best  policy. 
Time,”  said  Mr.  Witherden,  pulling 
out  his  watch,  “ in  a business  like  this, 
is  exceedingly  precious.  Favor  us  with 
your  decision  as  speedily  as  possible, 
ma’am.” 

With  a smile  upon  her  face,  and  look- 
ing at  each  of  the  three  by  turns,  Miss 
Brass  took  two  or  three  more  pinches 
of  snuff,  and,  having  by  this  time  very 
little  left,  travelled  round  and  round  the 
box  with  her  forefinger  and  thumb, 
scraping  up  another.  Having  disposed 
of  this  likewise  and  put  the  box  care- 
fully in  her  pocket,  she  said,  — 

“I  am  to  accept  or  reject  at  once, 
am  I?” 

“ Yes,”  said  Mr.  Witherden. 

The  charming  creature  was  opening 
her  lips  to  speak  in  reply,  when  the 
door  was  hastily  opened  too,  and  the 
head  of  Sampson  Brass  was  thrust  into 
the  room. 

“ Excuse  me,”  said  that  gentleman, 
hastily.  “Wait  a bit!” 

So  saying,'  and  quite  indifferent  to  the 
astonishment  his  presence  00  asioned, 
he  crept  in,  shut  the  door,  ki^ed  his 
greasy  glove  as  servilely  as  if  it  were 
the  dust,  and  made  a most  abject  bow. 

“Sarah,”  said  Brass,  “hold  your 
tongue  if  you  please,  and  let  me  speak. 
Gentlemen,  if  I could  express  the  pleas- 
ure it  gives  me  to  see  three  such  men 


286 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


in  a happy  unity  of  feeling  and  concord 
of  sentiment,  I think  you  would  hardly 
believe  me.  But  though  l am  unfortu- 
nate,— nay,  gentlemen,  criminal,  if  we 
are  to  use  harsh  expressions  in  a com- 
panylike this,  — still,  I have  my  feelings 
like  other  men.  I have  heard  of  a poet, 
who  remarked  that  feelings  were  the 
common  lot  of  all.  If  he  could  have 
been  a pig,  gentlemen,  and  have  uttered 
that  sentiment,  he  would  still  have  been 
immortal.” 

“If  you’re  not  an  idiot,”  said  Miss 
Brass,  harshly,  “hold  your  peace.” 

“ Sarah,  my  dear,”  returned  her 
brother,  “ thank  you.  But  I know 
what  I am  about,  my  Jove,  and  will  take 
the  liberty  of  expressing  myself  accord- 
ingly. Mr.  Witherden,  sir,  your  hand- 
kerchief is  hanging  out  of  your  pocket, 

— would  you  allow  me  to  — ” 

As  Mr.  Brass  advanced  to  remedy 
this  accident,  the  notary  shrunk  from 
him  with  an  air  of  disgust.  Brass,  who, 
over  and  above  his  usual  prepossessing 
qualities,  had  a scratched  face,  a green 
shade  over  one  eye,  and  a hat  grievous- 
ly crushed,  stopped  short,  and  looked 
round  with  a pitiful  smile. 

“ He  shuns  me,”  said  Sampson, 
“even  when  I would,  as  I may  say, 
heap  coals  of  fire  upon  his  head.  Well ! 
Ah  ! But  I am  a falling  house,  and  the 
rats  (if  I may  be  allowed  the  expression 
in  reference  to  a gentleman  I respect 
and  love  beyond  everything)  fly  from 
me  ! Gentlemen,  regarding  your  con- 
versation just  now,  I happened  to  see 
my  sister  on  her  way  here,  and,  wonder- 
ing where  she  could  be  going  to,  and 
being  — may  I venture  to  say? — natu- 
rally of  a suspicious  turn,  followed  her. 
Since  then,  I have  been  listening.” 

“ If  you  ’re  not  mad,”  interposed 
Miss  Sally,  “ stop  there,  and  say  no 
more.” 

“ Sarah,  my  dear,”  rejoined  Brass, 
with  undiminished  politeness,  “ I thank 
you  kindly,  but  will  still  proceed.  Mr. 
Witherden,  sir,  as  we  have  the  honor 
to  be  members  of  the  same  profession, 

— to  say  nothing  of  that  other  gentle- 
man having  been  my  lodger,  and  hav- 
ing partaken,  as  one  may  say,  of  the 
hospitality  of  my  roof,  — I think  you 
might  have  given  me  the  refusal  of  this 


offer  in  the  first  instance.  I do  indeed. 
Now,  my  dear  sir,”  cried  Brass,  seeing 
that  the  notary  was  about  to  interrupt 
him,  “ suffer  me  to  speak,  I beg.” 

Mr.  Witherden  was  silent,  and  Brass 
went  on. 

“ If  you  will  do  me  the  favor,”  he 
said,  holding  up  the  green  shade,  and 
revealing  an  eye  most  horribly  discol- 
ored, “to  look  at  this,  you  will  natural- 
ly inquire,  in  your  own  minds,  how  did 
I get  it.  If  you  look  from  that  to 
my  face,  you  will  wonder  what  could 
have  been  the  cause  of  all  these  scratch- 
es. And  if  from  them  to  my  hat,  how 
it  came  into  the  state  in  which  you  see 
it.  Gentlemen,”  said  Brass,  striking 
the  hat  fiercely  with  his  clenched  hand, 
“ to  all  these  questions  I answer,  — 
Quilp  ! ” 

The  three  gentleman  looked  at  each 
other,  but  said  nothing. 

“ I say,”  pursued  Brass,  glancing 
aside  at  his  sister,  as  though  he  were 
talking  for  her  information,  and  speak- 
ing with  a snarling  malignity,  in  violent 
contrast  to  his  usual  smoothness,  “ that 
I answer  to  all  these  questions,  — Quilp, 

— Quilp,  who  deludes  me  into,  his  in- 
fernal den,  and  takes  a delight  in  look- 
ing on  and  chuckling  while  I scorch, 
and  burn,  and  bruise,  and  maim  myself, 

— Quilp,  who  never  once,  no,  never 
once,  in  all  our  communications  to- 
gether, has  treated  me  otherwise  than 
as  a dog,  — Quilp,  whom  I have  always 
hated  with  my  whole  heart,  but  never  so 
much  as  lately.  He  gives  me  the  cold 
shoulder  on  this  very  matter,  as  if  he 
had  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  instead 
of  being  the  first  to  propose  it.  I can’t 
trust  him.  In  one  of  his  howling,  rav- 
ing, blazing  humors,  I believe  he ’d  let 
it  out,  if  it  was  murder,  and  never  think 
of  himself  so  long  as  he  could  terrify 
me.  Now,”  said  Brass,  picking  up  his 
hat  again,  replacing  the  shade  over  his 
eye,  and  actually  crouching  down,  in 
the  excess  of  his  servility,  “what  does 
all  this  lead  me  to?  — what  should  you 
say  it  led  me  to,  gentlemen?  — could 
you  guess  at  all  near  the  mark?” 

Nobody  spoke.  Brass  stood  smirking 
for  a little  while,  as  if  he  had  pro- 
pounded some  choice  conundrum ; and 
then  said : — 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


287 


“To  be  short  with  you,  then,  it  leads 
me  to  this.  If  the  truth  has  come  out, 
as  it  plainly  has  in  a manner  that  there ’s 
no  standing  up  against,  — and  a very 
sublime  and  grand  thing  is  Truth,  gen- 
tlemen, in  its  way,  though  like  other 
sublime  and  grand  things,  such  as  thun- 
der-storms and  that,  we  he  not  always 
over  and  above  glad  to  see  it,  — I had 
better  turn  upon  this  man  than  let  this 
man  turn  upon  me.  It ’s  clear  to  me 
that  I am  done  for.  Therefore,  if  any- 
body is  to  split,  I had  better  be  the 
person  and  have  the  advantage  of  it. 
Sarah,  my  dear,  comparatively  speaking, 
you’re  safe.  I relate  these  circum- 
stances for  my  own  profit.” 

With  that,  Mr.  Brass,  in  a great 
hurry,  revealed  the  whole  story  ; bear- 
ing as  heavily  as  possible  on  his  amiable 
employer,  and  making  himself  out  to  be 
rather  & saint-like  and  holy  character, 
though  subject  — he  acknowledged  — 
to  human  weaknesses.  He  concluded 
thus  : — 

“ Now,  gentlemen,  I am  not  a man 
who  does  things  by  halves.  Being  in 
for  a penny,  I am  ready,  as  the  saying 
is,  to  be  in  for  a pound.  You  must  do 
with  me  what  you  please,  and  take  me 
where  you  please.  If  you  wish  to  have 
this  in  w'riting,  we  ’ll  reduce  it  into 
manuscript  immediately.  You  will  be 
tender  with  me,  I am  sure.  I am  quite 
confident  you  will  be  tender  with  me. 
You  are  men  of  honor,  and  have  feel- 
ing hearts.  I yielded  from  necessity 
to  Quilp ; for,  though  Necessity  has  no 
law,  she  has  her  lawyers.  I yield  to  you 
from  necessity  too  ; from  policy  besides  ; 
and  because  of  feelings  that  have  been 
a pretty  long  time  working  within  me. 
Punish  Quilp,  gentlemen.  Weigh  heav- 
ily upon  him.  Grind  him  down.  Tread 
him  under  foot.  He  has  done  as  much 
by  me,  for  many  and  many  a day.” 

Having  now  arrived  at  the  conclusion 
of  his  discourse,  Sampson  checked  the 
current  of  his  wrath,  kissed  his  glove 
again,  and  smiled  as  only  parasites  and 
cowards  can. 

“And  this,”  said  Miss  Brass,  raising 
her  head,  with  which  she  had  hitherto 
sat  resting  on  her  hands,  and  surveying 
him  from  head  to  foot  with  a bitter 
sneer,  — “ this  is  my  brother,  is  it ! This 


is  my  brother,  that  I have  worked  and 
toiled  for,  and  believed  to  have  had 
something  of  the  man  in  him  ! ” 

“ Sarah,  my  dear,”  returned  Samp- 
son, rubbing  his  hands  feebly,  “ you 
disturb  our  friends.  Besides,  you, 
you’re  disappointed,  Sarah,  and,  not 
knowing  what  you  say,  expose  your- 
self.” 

“ Yes,  you  pitiful  dastard,”  retorted 
the  lovely  damsel,  “ I understand  you. 
You  feared  that  I should  be  beforehand 
with  you.  But  do  you  think  that  / 
would  have  been  enticed  to  say  a word  ! 
I ’d  have  scorned  it,  if  they  had  tried 
and  tempted  me  for  twenty  years.” 

“ He,  he  ! ” simpered  Brass,  who,  in 
his  deep  debasement,  really  seemed  to 
have  changed  sexes  with  his  sister,  and 
to  have  made  over  to  her  any  spark  of 
manliness  he  might  have  possessed. 
“You  think  so,  Sarah,  you  think  so 
perhaps  ; but  you  would  have  acted 
quite  different,  my  good  fellow.  You 
will  not  have  forgotten  that  it  was 
a maxim  with  Foxev,  — our  revered 
father,  gentlemen,  — ‘ Always  suspect 
everybody.’  That’s  the  maxim  to  go 
through  life  with  ! If  you  were  not 
actually  about  to  purchase  your  own 
safety  when  I showed  myself,  I suspect 
you ’d  have  done  it  by  this  time.  And 
therefore  T ’ve  done  it  myself,  and 
spared  you  the  trouble  as  well  as  the 
shame.  The  shame,  gentlemen,”  add- 
ed Brass,  allowing  himself  to  be  slight- 
ly overcome,  “ if  there  is  any,  is  mine. 
It ’s  better  that  a female  should  be 
spared  it.” 

With  deference  to  the  better  opinion 
of  Mr.  Brass,  and  more  particularly  to 
the  authority  of  his  great  ancestor,  it 
may  be  doubted,  with  humility,  wheth- 
er the  elevating  principle  laid  down  by 
the  latter  gentleman,  and  acted  upon  by 
his  descendant,  is  always  a prudent  one, 
or  attended  in  practice  with  the  desired 
results.  This  is,  beyond  question,  a 
bold  and  presumptuous  doubt,  inas- 
much as  many  distinguished  characters, 
called  men  of  the  world,  long-headed 
customers,  knowing  dogs,  shrewd  fel- 
lows, capital  hands  at  business,  and  the 
dike,  have  made,  and  do  daily  make, 
this  axiom  their  polar  star  and  compass. 
Still,  the  doubt  may  be  gently  insinuat- 


288 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


ed.  And  in  illustration  it  may  be  ob- 
served, that  if  Mr.  Brass,  not  being 
over-suspicious,  had,  without  prying 
and  listening,  left  his  sister  to  manage 
the  conference  on  their  joint  behalf,  or, 
prying  and  listening,  had  not  been  in 
such  a mighty  hurry  to  anticipate  her 
(which  he  would  not  have  been,  but 
for  his  distrust  and  jealousy),  he  would 
probably  have  found  himself  much  bet- 
ter off  in  the  end.  Thus,  it  will  always 
happen  that  these  men  of  the  world, 
who  go  through  it  in  armor,  defend 
themselves  from  quite  as  much  good 
as  evil ; to  say  nothing  of  the  inconven- 
ience and  absurdity  of  mounting  guard 
with  a microscope  at  all  times,  and  of 
wearing  a coat-of-mail  on  the  most  in- 
nocent occasions. 

The  three  gentlemen  spoke  together 
apart  for  a few  moments.  At  the  end 
of  their  consultation,  which  was  very 
brief,  the  notary  pointed  to  the  writ- 
ing materials  on  the  table,  and  informed 
Mr.  Brass  that  if  he  wished  to  make 
any  statement  in  writing,  he  had  the 
opportunity  of  doing  so.  At  the  same 
time  he  felt  bound  to  tell  him  that  they 
would  require  his  attendance,  presently, 
before  a justice  of  the  peace,  and  that, 
in  what  he  did  or  said,  he  was  guided 
entirely  by  his  own  discretion. 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  Brass,  drawing 
off  his  gloves,  and  crawling  in  spirit  up- 
on the  ground  before  them,  “ I will  jus- 
tify the  tenderness  with  which  I know  I 
shall  be  treated  ; and  as,  without  ten- 
derness, I should,  now  that  this  dis- 
covery has  been  made,  stand  in  the 
worst  position  of  the  three,  you  may  de- 
pend upon  it  I will  make  a clean  breast. 
Mr.  Witherden,  sir,  a kind  of  faintness 
is  upon  my  spirits.  If  you  would  do  me 
the  favor  to  ring  the  bell  and  order  up 
a glass  of  something  warm  and  spicy,  I 
shall,  notwithstanding  what  has  passed, 
have  a melancholy  pleasure  in  drinking 
your  good  health.  I had  hoped,”  said 
Brass,  looking  round  with  a mournful 
smile,  “ to  have  seen  you  three  gentle- 
men, one  day  or  another,  with  your  legs 
under  the  mahogany  in  my  humble 
parlor *in  the  Marks.  But  hopes  are 
fleeting.  Dear  me  ! ” 

Mr.  Brass  found  himself  so  exceed- 
ingly affected,  at  this  point,  that  he 


could  say  or  do  nothing  more  until 
some  refreshment  .arrived  Having 
artaken  of  it,  pretty  freely  for  one  in 
is  agitated  state,  he  sat  down  to 
write. 

The  lovely  Sarah,  now  with  her  arms 
folded,  and  now  with  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her,  paced  the  room  with  many 
strides,  while  her  brother  was  thus  em- 
ployed, and  sometimes  stopped  to  pull 
out  her  snuffbox  and  bite  the  lid.  She 
continued  to  pace  up  and  down  until 
she  was  quite  tired,  and  then  fell  asleep 
on  a chair  near  the  door. 

It  has  been  since  supposed,  with  some 
reason,  that  this  slumber  was  a sham  or 
feint,  as  she  contrived  to  slip  away  un- 
observed in  the  dusk  of  the  afternoon. 
Whether  this  was  an  intentional  and 
waking  departure,  or  a somnambulistic 
leave-taking  and  walking  in  her  sleep, 
may  remain  a subject  of  contention  ; 
but  on  one  point  (and  indeed  the  main 
one)  all  parties  are  agreed.  In  what- 
ever state  she  walked  away,  she  cer- 
tainly did  not  walk  back  again. 

Mention  having  been  made  of  the 
dusk  of  the  afternoon,  it  will  be  inferred 
that  Mr.  Brass’s  task  occupied  some 
time  in  the  completion.  It  was  not 
finished  until  evening ; but,  being  done 
at  last,  # that  worthy  person  and  +he 
three  friends  adjourned  in  a hackney- 
coach  to  the  private  office  of  a justice, 
who,  giving  Mr.  Brass  a warm  recep- 
tion and  detaining  him  in  a secure  place 
that  he  might  insure  to  himself  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  him  on  the  morrow, 
dismissed  the  others  with  the  cheering 
assurance  that  a warrant  could  not  fail 
to  be  granted  next  day  for  the  apprehen- 
sion of  Mr.  Quilp,  and  that  a proper 
application  and  statement  of  all  the 
circumstances  to  the  secretary  of  state 
(who  was  fortunately  in  town)  would  no 
doubt  procure  Kit’s  free  pardon  and 
liberation  without  delay. 

And  now,  indeed,  it  seemed  that 
Quilp’s  malignant  career  was  drawing 
to  a close,  and  that  Retribution,  which 
often  travels  slowly  — especially  when 
heaviest  — had  tracked  his  footsteps 
with  a sure  and  certain  scent,  and  was 
gaining  on  him  fast.  Unmindful  of  her 
stealthy  tread,  her  victim  holds  his 
course  in  fancied  triumph.  Still  at  his 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


289 


heels  she  comes,  and  once  afoot,  is 
never  turned  aside  ! 

Their  business  ended,  the  three  gen- 
tlemen hastened  back  to  the  lodgings 
of  Mr.  Swiveller,  whom  they  found  pro- 
gressing so  favorably  in  his  recovery  as 
to  have  been  able  to  sit  up  for  half  an 
hour,  and  to  have  conversed  with  cheer- 
fulness. Mrs.  Garland  had  gone  home 
some  time  since,  but  Mr.  Abel  was  still 
sitting  with  him.  After  tellmg  him  all 
they  had  done,  the  two  Mr.  Garlands 
and  the  single  gentleman,  as  if  by  some 
previous  understanding,  took  their  leaves 
for  the  night,  leaving  the  invalid  alone 
with  the  notary  and  the  small  servant. 

“As  you  are  so  much  better,”  said 
Mr.  Witherden,  sitting  down  at  the 
bedside,  “ I may  venture  to  communi- 
cate to  you  a piece  of  news  which  has 
come  to  me  professionally.” 

The  idea  of  any  professional  intelli- 
gence from  a gentleman  connected  with 
legal  matters,  appeared  to  afford  Rich- 
ard anything  but  a pleasing  anticipation. 
Perhaps  he  connected  it  in  his  own 
mind  with  one  or  two  outstanding  ac- 
counts, in  reference  to  which  he  had 
already  received  divers  threatening  let- 
ters. His  countenance  fell  as  he  re- 
plied, — 

“ Certainly,  sir.  I hope  it ’s  not  any- 
thing of  a very  disagreeable  nature, 
though  ? ” 

“ If  I thought  it  so,  I should  choose 
some  better  time  for  communicating  it,” 
replied  the  notary.  “ Let  me  tell  you, 
first,  that  my  fnends  who  have  been 
here  to-day  know  nothing  of  it,  and 
that  their  kindness  to  you  has  been 
quite  spontaneous  and  with  no  hope  of 
return.  It  may  do  a thoughtless,  care- 
less man  good  to  know  that.” 

Dick  thanked  him,  and  said  he  hoped 
it  would. 

“I  have  been  making  some  inquiries 
about  you.”  said  Mr.  Witherden,  “little 
thinking  that  I should  find  you  under 
such  circumstances  as  those  which  have 
brought  us  together.  You  are  the 
nephew  of  Rebecca  Swiveller,  spinster, 
deceased,  of  Cheselbourne  in  Dorset- 
shire.” 

“ Deceased  1 ” cried  Dick. 

“ Deceased.  If  you  had  been  anoth- 
er sort  of  nephew,  you  would  have  come 

19 


into  possession  (so  says  the  will,  and  I 
see  no  reason  to  doubt  it)  of  five-and- 
twenty  thousand  pounds.  As  it  is,  you 
have  fallen  into  an  annuity  of  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  a year;  but  I 
think  I may  congratulate  you  even  upon 
that.” 

“ Sir,”  said  Dick,  sobbing  and  laugh- 
ing together,  “you  may.  For,  please 
God,  we  ’ll  make  a scholar  of  the  poor 
Marchioness  yet  ! And  she  shall  walk 
in  silk  attire,  and  siller  have  to  spare, 
or  may  I never  rise  from  this  bed 
again  ! ” 


CHAPTER  LX VI I. 

Unconscious  of  the  proceedings 
faithfully  narrated  in  the  last  chapter, 
and  little  dreaming  of  the  mine  which 
had  been  sprung  beneath  him  (for,  to 
the  end  that  he  should  have  no  warning 
of  the  business  afoot,  the  profoundest 
secrecy  was  observed  in  the  whole  trans- 
action), Mr.  Quilp  remained  shut  up 
in  his  hermitage,  undisturbed  by  any 
suspicion,  and  extremely  well  satisfied 
with  the  result  of  his  machinations. 
Being  engaged  in  the  adjustment  of 
some  accounts  — an  occupation  to  which 
the  silence  and  solitude  of  his  retreat 
were  very  favorable — he  had  not  strayed 
from  his  den  for  two  whole  days.  The 
third  day  of  his  devotion  to  this  pursuit 
found  him  still  hard  at  work,  and  little 
disposed  to  stir  abroad. 

It  was  the  day  next  after  Mr.  Brass’s 
confession,  and,  consequently,  that 
which  threatened  the  restriction  of  Mr. 
Quilp’s  liberty,  and  the  abrupt  commu- 
nication to  him  of  some  very  unpleas- 
ant and  unwelcome  facts.  Having  no 
intuitive  perception  of  the  cloud  which 
lowered  upon  his  house,  the  dwarf  was 
in  his  ordinary  state  of  cheerfulness ; 
and  when  he  found  he  was  becoming 
too  much  engrossed  by  business,  with  a 
due  regard  to  his  health  and  spirits,  he 
varied  its  monotonous  routine  with  a 
little  screeching,  or  howling,  or  some 
other  innocent  relaxation  of  that  na- 
ture. 

He  was  attended,  as  usual,  by  Tom 
Scott,  who  sat  crouching  over  the  fire 
after  the  manner  of  a toad,  and  from 


290 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


time  to  time,  when  his  master’s  back 
was  turned,  imitated  his  grimaces  with 
a fearful  exactness.  The  figure-head 
had  not  yet  disappeared,  but  remained 
in  its  old  place.  The  face,  horribly 
seared  by  the  frequent  application  of 
the  red-hot  poker,  and  further  ornament- 
ed by  the  insertion,  in  the  tip  of  the 
nose,  of  a tenpenny  nail,  yet  smiled 
blandly  in  its  less  lacerated  parts,  and 
seemed,  like  a sturdy  martyr,  to  provoke 
its  tormentor  to  the  commission  of  new 
outrages  and  insults. 

The  day,  in  the  highest  and  brightest 
quarters  of  the  town,  was  damp,  dark, 
cold,  and  gloomy.  In  that  low  and 
marshy  spot,  the  fog  filled  every  nook 
and  corner  with  a thick,  dense  cloud. 
Every  object  was  obscured  at  one  or 
two  yards’  distance.  The  warning  lights 
and  fires  upon  the  river  were  powerless 
beneath  this  pall,  and,  but  for  a raw 
and  piercing  chillness  in  the  air,  and 
now  and  then  the  cry  of  some  bewil- 
dered boatman  as  he  rested  on  his  oars 
and  tried  to  make  out  where  he  was, 
the  river  itself  might  have  been  miles 
away. 

The  mist,  though  sluggish  and  slow 
to  move,  was  of  a keenly  searching 
kind.  No  muffling  up  in  furs  and 
broadcloth  kept  it  out.  It  seemed  to 
penetrate  into  the  very  bones  of  the 
shrinking  wayfarers,  and  to  rack  them 
with  cold  and  pains.  Everything  was 
wet  and  clammy  to  the  touch.  The 
warm  blaze  alone  defied  it,  and  leaped 
and  sparkled  merrily.  It  was  a day  to 
be  at  home,  crowding  about  the  fire, 
telling  stories  of  travellers  who  had 
lost  their  way  in  such  weather  on  heaths 
and  moors,  and  to  love  a warm  hearth 
more  than  ever. 

The  dwarf’s  humor,  as  we  know,  was 
to  have  a fireside  to  himself ; and  when 
he  was  disposed  to  be  convivial,  to  en- 
joy himself  alone.  By  no  means  insen- 
sible to  the  comfort  of  being  within 
doors,  he  ordered  Tom  Scott  to  pile  the 
little  stove  with  coals,  and,  dismissing 
his  work  for  that  day,  determined  to  be 
jovial. 

To  this  end,  he  lighted  up  fresh 
candles  and  heaped  more  fuel  on  the 
fire ; and  having  dined  off  a beefsteak 
which  he  cooked  himself  in  somewhat 


of  a savage  and  cannibal-like  manner, 
brewed  a great  bowl  of  hot  punch, 
lighted  his  pipe,  and  sat  down  to  spend 
the  evening. 

At  this  moment,  a low  knocking  at 
the  cabin  door  arrested  his  attention. 
When  it  had  been  twice  or  thrice  re- 
peated, he  softly  opened  the  little  win- 
dow, and,  thrusting  his  head  out,  de- 
manded wjio  was  there. 

“ Only  me,  Quilp,”  replied  a wo- 
man’s voice. 

“ Only  you  ! ” cried  the  dwarf, 
stretching  his  neck  to  obtain  a better 
view  of  his  visitor.  “ And  what  brings 
you  here,  you  jade?  How  dare  you 
approach  the  ogre’s  castle,  eh?” 

“ I have  come  with  some  news,”  re- 
joined his  spouse.  “ Don’t  be  angry 
with  me.” 

“ Is  it  good  news,  pleasant  news, 
news  to  make  a man  skip  and  snap 
his  fingers?  ” said  the  dwarf.  “ Is  the 
dear  old  lady  dead?” 

“ I don’t  know  what  news  it  is,  or 
whether  it ’s  good  or  bad,”  rejoined  his 
wife. 

“ Then  she ’s  alive,”  said  Quilp, 
“ and  there ’s  nothing  the  matter  with 
her.  Go  home  again,  you  bird  of  evil 
note,  go  home  ! ” 

“ I have  brought  a letter,”  cried  the 
meek  little  woman. 

“ Toss  it  in  at  the  window  here,  and 
go  your  ways,”  said  Quilp,  interrupting 
her,  “or  I ’ll  come  out  and  scratch 
you.” 

“No,  but  please,  Quilp  — do  hear 
me  speak,”  urged  his  submissive  wife, 
in  tears.  “ Please  do  ! ” 

“ Speak  then,”  growled  the  dwarf, 
with  a malicious  grin.  “ Be  quick  and 
short  about  it.  Speak,  will  you?” 

“ It  was  left  at  our  house  this  after- 
noon,” said  Mrs.  Quilp,  trembling,  “ by 
a boy  who  said  he  didn’t  know  from 
whom  it  came,  but  that  it  was  given  to 
him  to  leave,  and  that  he  was  told  to 
say  it  must  be  brought  on  to  you  di- 
rectly, for  it  was  of  the  very  greatest 
consequence.  But  please,”  she  added, 
as  her  husband  stretched  out  his  hand 
for  it,  — “please  let  me  in.  You  don’t 
know  how  wet  and  cold  I am,  or  how 
many  times  I have  lost  my  way  in  com- 
ing here  through  this  thick  fog.  me 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


dry  myself  at  the  fire  for  five  minutes. 

I ’ll  go  away  directly  you  tell  me  to, 
Quilp.  Upon  my  word,  I will.” 

Her  amiable  husband  hesitated  for 
a few  moments  ; but,  bethinking  him- 
self that  the  letter  might  require  some 
answer,  of  which  she  could  be  the 
bearer,  closed  the  window,  opened  the 
door,  and  bade  her  enter.  Mrs.  Quilp 
obeyed  right  willingly,  and,  kneeling 
down  before  the  fire  to  warm  her  hands, 
delivered  into  his  a little  packet. 

“ I ’m  glad  you  ’re  wet,”  said  Quilp, 
snatching  it,  and  squinting  at  her. 
“ I ’m  glad  you  ’re  cold.  I ’m  glad 
you ’ve  lost  your  way.  I ’m  glad  your 
eyes  are  red  with  crying.  It  does  my 
heart  good  to  see  your  little  nose  so 
pinched  and  frosty.” 

“O  Quilp  !”  sobbed  his  wife,  “how 
cruel  it  is  of  you  ! ” 

“ Did  she  think  I was  dead  ! ” said 
Quilp,  wrinkling  his  face  into  a most 
extraordinary  series  of  grimaces.  “ Did 
she  think  she  was  going  to  have  all  the 
money,  and  to  marry  somebody  she 
liked?  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Did  she?” 
These  taunts  elicited  no  reply  from 
the  poor  little  woman,  who  remained 
on  her  knees,  wanning  her  hands  and 
sobbing,  to  Mr.  Quilp’s  great  delight. 
But  just  as  he  was  contemplating  her, 
and  chuckling  excessively,  he  happened 
to  observe  that  Tom  Scott  was  delight- 
ed too ; wherefore,  that  he  might  have 
no  presumptuous  partner  in  his  glee, 
the  dwarf  instantly  collared  him,  dragged 
him  to  the  door,  and,  after  a short  scuf- 
fle, kicked  him  into  the  yard.  In  re- 
turn for  this  mark  of  attention,  Tom 
immediately  walked  upon  his  hands  to 
the  window,  and  — if  the  expression  be 
allowable — looked  in  with  his  shoes, 
besides  rattling  his  feet  upon  the  glass 
like  a Banshee  upside  down.  As  a 
matter  of  course,  Mr.  Quilp  lost  no  time 
in  resorting  to  the  infallible  poker,  with 
which,  after  some  dodging  and  lying 
in  ambush,  he  paid  his  young  friend 
one  or  two  such  unequivocal  compli- 
ments that  he  vanished  precipitately, 
and  left  him  in  quiet  possession  of  the 
field. 

“ So  ! That  little  job  being  disposed 
of,”  said  the  dwarf,  coolly,  “ I ’ll  read 
my  letter.  Humph  ! ” he  muttered, 


291 

looking  at  the  direction.  “ I ought  to 
know  this  writing.  Beautiful  Sally  ! ” 
Opening  it,  he  read,  in  a fair,  round, 
legal  hand,  as  follows  : — 

“ Sammy  has  been  practised  upon,  and 
has  broken  confidence.  It  has  all  come 
out.  You  had  better  not  be  in  the  way, 
for  strangers  are  going  to  call  upon  you. 
They  have  been  very  quiet  as  yet,  be- 
cause they  mean  to  surprise  you.  Don’t 
lose  time.  I did  n’t.  I am  not  to  be 
found  anywhere.  If  I was  you,  I 
would  n’t  be,  either.  S.  B.,  late  of  B. 
M.” 

To  describe  the  changes  that  passed 
over  Quilp’s  face  as  he  read  this  let- 
ter half  a dozen  times,  would  require 
some  new  language,  — such,  for  power  of 
expression,  as  was  never  written,  read, 
or  spoken.  For  a long  time  he  did  not 
utter  one  word ; but,  after  a considera- 
ble interval,  during  which  Mrs.  Quilp 
was  almost  paralyzed  with  the  alarm  his 
looks  engendered,  he  contrived  to  gasp 
out,  — 

“ If  I had  him  here  ! If  I only  had 
him  here — ” 

“ O Quilp  ! ” said  his  wife,  “ what’s 
the  matter  ? Who  are  you  angry  with  ? ” 
“ I should  drown  him,”  said  the  dwarf, 
not  heeding  her.  “ Too  easy  a death,  — 
too  short,  too  quick,  — but  the. river  runs 
close  at  hand.  Oh  ! If  I had  him  here  ! 
Just  to  take  him  to  the  brink,  coaxingly 
and  pleasantly,  holding  him  by  the  but- 
ton-hole, joking  with  him,  and,  with 
a sudden  push,  to  send  him  splashing 
down ! Drowning  men  come  to  the 
surface  three  times  they  say.  Ah  ! To 
see  him  those  three  times,  and  mock 
him  as  his  face  came  bobbing  up,  — O, 
what  a rich  treat  that  would  be  ! ” 
“Quilp!”  stammered  his  wife,  ven-t 
turing  at  the  same  time  to  touch  him  on 
the  shoulder,  “ what  has  gone  wrong  ? ” 
She  was  so  terrified  by  the  relish  with 
which  he  pictured  this  pleasure  to  him- 
self that  she  could  scarcely  make  her- 
self intelligible. 

“ Such  a bloodless  cur  ! ” said  Quilp, 
rubbing  his  hands  very  slowly,  and 
pressing  them  tight  together.  “ I 
thought  his  cowardice  and  servility 
were  the  best  guaranty  for  his  keep- 
ing silence.  O Brass,  Brass,  — my 
dear,  good,  affectionate,  faithful,  com- 


292 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


plimentary,  charming  friend,  — if  I on- 
ly had  you  here  ! ” 

His  wife,  who  had  retreated  lest  she 
should  seem  to  listen  to  these  mutter- 
ings,  ventured  to  approach  him  again, 
and  was  about  to  speak,  when  he  hur- 
ried to  the  door  and  called  Tom  Scott, 
who,  remembering  his  late  gentle  ad- 
monition, deemed  it  prudent  to  appear 
immediately. 

“ There  ! ” said  the  dwarf,  pulling  him 
in.  “ Take  her  home.  Don’t  come 
here  to-morrow,  for  this  place  will  be 
shut  up.  Come  back  no  more  till  you 
hear  from  me  or  see  me.  Do  you 
mind  ? ” 

Tom  nodded  sulkily,  and  beckoned 
Mrs.  Quilp  to  lead  the  way. 

“ As  for  you,”  said  the  dwarf,  address- 
ing himself  to  her,  “ask  no  questions 
about  me,  make  no  search  for  me,  say 
nothing  concerning  me.  I shall  not 
be  dead,  mistress,  and  that  ’ll  comfort 
you.  He’ll  take  care  of  you.” 

“But  Quilp?  What  is  the  matter? 
Where  are  you  going  ? Do  say  some- 
thing more.” 

“ I ’ll  say  that,”  said  the  dwarf,  seiz- 
ing her  by  the  arm,  “ and  do  that  too, 
which  undone  and  unsaid  would  be 
best  for  you,  unless  you  go  directly.” 

“ Has  anything  happened?  ” cried  his 
wife.  “ O,  do  tell  me  that.” 

“Yes,”  snarled  the  dwarf.  “No. 
What  matter  which  ? I have  told  you 
what  to  do.  Woe  betide  you  if  you  fail 
to  do  it,  or  disobey  me  by  a hair’s  % 
breadth.  Will  you  go  ? ” 

“ I am  going;  I ’ll  go  directly  ; but,” 
faltered  his  wife,  “ answer  me  one  ques- 
tion first.  Has  this  letter  any  connec- 
tion with  dear  little  Nell  ? I must  ask 
you  that,  — I must  indeed,  Quilp.  You 
cannot  think  what  days  and  nights  of 
sorrow  I have  had  through  having  once 
deceived  that  child.  I don’t  know  what 
harm  I may  have  brought  about,  but, 
great  or  little,  I did  it  for  you,  Quilp. 
My  conscience  misgave  me  when  I did 
it.  Do  answer  me  this  question,  if  you 
please.” 

The  exasperated  dwarf  returned  no 
answer,  but  turned  round  and  caught 
up  his  usual  weapon  with  such  vehe- 
mence that  Tom  Scott  dragged  his 
charge  away,  by  main  force,  and  as 


swiftly  as  he  could.  It  was  well  he  did 
so,  for  Quilp,  who  was  nearly  mad  with 
rage,  pursued  them  to  the  neighboring 
lane,  and  might  have  prolonged  the 
chase  but  for  the  dense  mist  which  ob- 
scured them  from  his  view,  and  ap- 
peared to  thicken  every  moment. 

“It  will  be  a good  night  for  travelling 
anonymously,”  he  said,  as  he  returned 
slowly ; being  pretty  well  breathed  with 
his  run.  “ Stay.  We  may  look  better 
here.  This  is  too  hospitable  and  free.” 

By  a great  exertion  of  strength  he 
closed  the  two  old  gates,  which  were 
deeply  sunken  in  the  mud,  and  barred 
them  with  a heavy  beam.  That  done, 
he  shook  his  matted  hair  from  about 
his  eyes,  and  tried  them.  — Strong  and 
fast. 

“ The  fence  between  this  wharf  and 
the  next  is  easily  climbed,”  said  the 
dwarf,  when  he  had  taken  these  pre- 
cautions. “ There ’s  a back  lane,  too, 
from  there.  That  shall  be  my  way  out. 
A man  need  know  his  road  well,  to  find 
it  in  this  lovely  place  to-night.  I need 
fear  no  unwelcome  visitors  while  this 
lasts,  I think.” 

Almost  reduced  to  the  necessity  of 
groping  his  way  with  his  hands  (it  had 
grown  so  dark  and  the  fog  had  so  much 
increased),  he  returned  to  his  lair;  and, 
after  musing  for  some  time  over  the 
fire,  busied  himself  in  preparations  for 
a speedy  departure. 

While  he  was  collecting  a few  ne- 
cessaries and  cramming  them  into  his 
pockets,  he  never  once  ceased  com- 
muning with  himself  in  a low  voice,  or 
unclenched  his  teeth,  which  he  had 
ground  together  on  finishing  Miss 
Brass’s  note. 

“O  Sampson  ! ” he  muttered,  “good, 
worthy  creature,  if  I could  but  hug 
you  ! If  I could  only  fold  you  in  my 
arms,  and  squeeze  your  ribs,  as  I could 
squeeze  them  if  I once  had  you  tight, 
— what  a meeting  there  would  be  be- 
tween us  ! If  we  ever  do  cross  each 
other  again,  Sampson,  we  ’ll  have  a 
greeting  not  easily  to  be  forgotten,  trust 
me.  This  time,  Sampson,  this  mo- 
ment, when  all  had  gone  on  so  well, 
was  so  nicely  chosen  ! It  was  so 
thoughtful  of  you,  so  penitent,  so  good. 
O,  if  we  were  face  to  face  in  this  room 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


293 


again,  my  white-livered  man  of  law,  how 
well  contented  one  of  us  would  be  ! ” 

There  he  stopped ; and,  raising  the 
bowl  of  punch  to  his  lips,  drank  a long 
deep  draught,  as  if  it  were  fair  water 
and  cooling  to  his  parched  mouth.  Set- 
ting it  down  abruptly,  and  resuming  his 
preparations,  he  went  on  with  his  solil- 
oquy. 

“ There  ’s  Sally,”  he  said,  with  flash- 
ing eyes  ; “ the  woman  has  spirit,  de- 
termination, purpose,  — was  she  asleep, 
or  petrified  ? She  could  have  stabbed 
him,  poisoned  him  safely.  She  might 
have  seen  this  coming  on.  Why  does 
she  give  me  notice  when  it ’s  too  late  ? 
When  he  sat  there,  — yonder  there, 
over  there, — with  his  white  face,  and 
red  head,  and  sickly  smile,  why  didn’t  I 
know  what  was  passing  in  his  heart  ? 
It  should  have  stopped  beating,  that 
night,  if  I had  been  in  his  secret,  or 
there  are  no  drugs  to  lull  a man  to 
sleep,  and  no  fire  to  burn  him  ! ” 

Another  draught  from  the  bowl ; and, 
cowering  over  the  fire  with  a ferocious 
aspect,  he  muttered  to  himself  again. 

“And  this,  like  every  other  trouble 
and  anxiety  I have  had  of  late  times, 
springs  from  that  old  dotard  and  his 
darling  child,  — two  wretched,  feeble 
wanderers  ! I ’ll  be  their  evil  genius 
yet.  And  you,  sweet  Kit,  honest  Kit, 
virtuous,  innocent  Kit,  look  to  your- 
self. Where  I hate,  I bite.  I hate 
you,  my  darling  fellow,  with  good  cause  ; 
and,  proud  as  you  are  to-night,  I ’ 11 
have  my  turn.  — What ’s  that ! ” 

A knocking  at  the  gate  he  had  closed. 
A loud  and  violent  knocking.  Then 
a pause,  as  if  those  who  knocked 
had  stopped  to  listen.  Then  the  noise 
again,  more  clamorous  and  importunate 
than  before. 

“ So  soon  ! ” said  the  dwarf.  “ And 
so  eager  ! I am  afraid  I shall  disap- 
point you.  It ’s  well  I ’m  quite  pre- 
pared. Sally,  I thank  you  ! ” 

As  he  spoke,  he  extinguished  the 
candle.  In  his  impetuous  attempts  to 
subdue  the  brightness  of  the  fire,  he 
overset  the  stove,  which  came  tumbling 
forward,  and  fell  with  a crash  upon  the 
burning  embers  it  had  shot  forth  in  its 
descent,  leaving  the  room  in  pitchy 
darkness.  The  noise  at  the  gate  still 


continuing,  he  felt  his  way  to  the  door, 
and  stepped  into  the  open  air. 

At  that  moment  the  knocking  ceased. 
It  was  about  eight  o’clock ; but  the 
dead  of  the  darkest  night  would  have 
been  as  noonday,  in  comparison  with 
the  thick  cloud  which  then  rested  upon 
the  earth,  and  shrouded  everything 
from  view.  He  darted  forward  for  a 
few  paces,  as  if  into  the  mouth  of  some 
dim,  yawning  cavern,  then,  thinking 
he  had  gone  wrong,  changed  the  direc- 
tion of  his  steps ; then  stood  still,  not 
knowing  where  to  turn. 

“ If  they  would  knock  again,”  said 
Quilp,  trying  to  peer  into  the  gloom  by 
which  he  was  surrounded,  “the  sound 
might  guide  me  ! Come  1 Batter  the 
gate  once  more  ! ” 

He  stood  listening  intently,  but  the 
noise  was  not  renewed.  Nothing  was 
to  be  heard  in  that  deserted  place  but, 
at  intervals,  the  distant  barkings  of  dogs. 
The  sound  was  far  away,  — now  in  one 
quarter,  now  answered  in  another,  — nor 
was  it  any  guide,  for  it  often  came  from 
shipboard  as  he  knew. 

“ If  I could  find  a wall  or  fence,”  said 
the  dw'arf,  stretching  out  his  arms,  and 
walking  slowly  on,  “ I should  know 
which  way  to  turn.  A good,  black, 
devil’s  night  this,  to  have  my  dear 
friend  here  ! If  I* had  but  that  wish,  it 
might,  for  anything  I cared,  never  be 
day  again.” 

As  the  word  passed  his  lips,  he  stag- 
gered and  fell,  and  next  moment  was 
fighting  with  the  cold  dark  water  ! 

For  all  its  bubbling  up  and  rushing 
in  his  ears,  he  could  hear  the  knocking 
at  the  gate  again,  — could  hear  a shout 
that  followed  it,  — could  recognize  the 
voice.  For  all  his  struggling  and  plash- 
ing, he  could  understand  that  they  had 
lost  their  way,  and  had  wandered  back  to 
the  point  from  which  they  started  ; that 
they  were  all  but  looking  on,  while  he 
was  drowned ; that  they  were  close  at 
hand,  but  could  not  make  an  effort  to 
save  him  ; that  he  himself  had  shut  and 
barred  them  out.  He  answered  the 
shout — with  a yell  which  seemed  to 
make  the  hundred  fires  that  danced 
before  his  eyes  tremble  and  flicker  as 
if  a gust  of  wind  had  stirred  them.  It 
was  of  no  avail.  The  strong  tide  filled 


294 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


his  throat,  and  bore  him  on  upon  its 
rapid  current. 

Another  mortal  struggle,  and  he  was 
up  again,  beating  the  water  with  his 
hands,  and  looking  out,  with  wild  and 
glaring  eyes  that  showed  him  some 
black  object  he  was  drifting  close  upoti. 
The  hull  of  a ship  ! He  could  touch 
its  smooth  and  slippery  surface  with 
his  hand.  One  loud  cry  now, — but 
the  resistless  water  bore  him  down  be- 
fore he  could  give  it  utterance,  and, 
driving  him  under,  it  carried  away  a 
corpse. 

It  toyed  and  sported  with  its  ghastly 
freight,  now  bruising  it  against  the  slimy 
piles,  now  hiding  it  in  mud  or  long  rank 
grass,  now  dragging  it  heavily  over 
rough  stones  and  gravel,  now  feigning  to 
yield  it  to  its  own  element,  aM  in  the 
same  action  luring  it  away,  until,  tired 
of  the  ugly  plaything,  it  flung  it  on  a 
swamp,  — a dismal  place  where  pirates 
had  swung  in  chains,  through  many  a 
wintry  night,  — and  left  it  there  to 
bleach. 

And  there  it  lay  alone.  The  sky  was 
red  with  flame,  and  the  water  that  bore 
it  there  had  been  tinged  with  the  sullen 
light  as  it  flowed  along.  The  place, 
the  deserted  carcass  had  left  so  re- 
cently, a living  man,  was  now  a blaz- 
ing ruin.  There  was  something  of  the 
glare  upon  its  face.  The  hair,  stirred 
by  the  damp  breeze,  played  in  a kind  of 
Vmockery  of  death  — such  a mockery  as 
the  dead  man  himself  would  have  de- 
lighted in  when  alive  — about  its  head, 
ana  its  dress  fluttered  idly  in  the  night- 
wind. 


CHAPTER  LXVIII. 

Lighted  rooms,  bright  fires,  cheer- 
ful faces,  the  music  of  glad  voices, 
words  of  love  and  welcome,  warm 
hearts,  and  tears  of  happiness,  — what 
a change  is  this  ! But  it  is  to  such 
delights  that  Kit  is  hastening.  They 
are  awaiting  him,  he  knows.  He  fears 
he  will  die  of  joy  before  he  gets  among 
them. 

They  have  prepared  him  for  this,  all 
day.  He  is  not  to  be  carried  off  to- 
morrow with  the  rest,  they  tell  him  first. 


By  degrees  they  let  him  know  that 
doubts  have  arisen,  that  inquiries  are 
to  be  made,  and  perhaps  he  may  be 
pardoned  after  all.  At  last,  the  even- 
ing being  come,  they  bring  him  to  a 
room  where  some  gentlemen  are  assem- 
bled. Foremost  among  them  is  his 

{'ood  old  master,  who  comes  and  takes 
lim  by  the  hand.  He  hears  that  his 
innocence  is  established,  and  that  he  is 
pardoned.  He  cannot  see  the  speaker, 
but  he  turns  towards  the  voice,  and, 
in  trying  to  answer,  falls  down  insensi- 
ble. 

They  recover  him  again,  and  tell  him 
he  must  be  composed,  and  bear  this 
like  a man.  Somebody  says  he  must 
think  of  his  poor  mother.  It  is  because 
he  does  think  of  her  so  much,  that 
the  happy  news  has  overpowered  him. 
They  crowd  about  him,  and  tell  him 
that  the  truth  has  gone  abroad,  and 
that  all  the  town  and  country  ring  with 
sympathy  for  his  misfortunes.  He  has 
no  ears  for  this.  His  thoughts,  as  yet, 
have  no  wider  range  than  home.  D<^s 
she  know  it?  what  did  she  say?  who 
told  her?  He  can  speak  of  nothing 
else. 

They  make  him  drink  a little  wine, 
and  talk  kindly  to  him  for  a while,  until 
he  is  more  collected,  and  can  listen,  and 
thank  them.  He  is  free  to  go.  Mr. 
Garland  thinks,  if  he  feels  better,  it  is 
time  they  went  away.  The  gentlemen 
duster  round  him,  and  shake  hands 
with  him.  He  feels  very  grateful  to 
them  for  the  interest  they  have  in 
him,  and  for  the  kind  promises  they 
make  ; but  the  power  of  speech  is  gone 
again,  and  he  has  much  ado  to  keep 
his  feet,  even  though  leaning  on  his 
master’s  arm. 

As  they  come  through  the  dismal 
passages,  some  officers  of  the  jail  who 
are  in  waiting  there  congratulate  him, 
in  their  rough  way,  on  his  release. 
The  newsmonger  is  of  the  number,  but 
his  manner  is  not  quite  hearty,  — there 
is  something  of  surliness  in  his  compli- 
ments. He  looks  upon  Kit  as  an  in- 
truder, as  one  who  has  obtained  admis- 
sion to  that  place  on  false  pretences, 
who  has  enjoyed  a privilege  without 
being  duly  qualified.  He  may  be  a 
very  good  sort  of  young  man,  he  thinks, 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


295 


but  he  has  no  business  there,  and  the 
sooner  he  is  gone  the  better. 

The  last  door  shuts  behind  them. 
They  have  passed  the  outer  wall,  and 
stand  in  the  open  air,  — in  the  street  he 
has  so  often  pictured  to  himself  when 
hemmed  in  by  the  gloomy  stones,  and 
which  has  been  in  all  his  dreams.  It 
seems  wider  and  more  busy  than  it 
used  to  be.  The  night  is  bad,  and  yet 
how  cheerful  and  gay  in  his  eyes  ! 
One  of  the  gentlemen,  in  taking  leave 
of  him,  pressed  some  4 money  into  his 
hand.  He  has  not  counted  it ; but 
when  they  have  gone  a few  paces  be- 
yond the  box  for  poor  prisoners,  he 
nastily  returns  and  drops  it  in. 

Mr.  Garland  has  a coach  waiting  in 
a neighboring  street,  and,  taking  Kit 
inside  with  him,  bids  the  man  drive 
home.  At  first,  they  can  only  travel 
at  a foot  pace,  and  then  with  torches 
going  on  before,  because  of  the  heavy 
fog.  But  as  they  get  farther  from  the 
river,  and  leave  the  closer  portions  of 
the  town  behind,  they  are  able  to  dis- 
pense with  this  precaution  and  to  pro- 
ceed at  a brisker  rate.  On  the  road, 
hard  galloping  would  be  too  slow  for 
Kit ; but  when  they  are  drawing  near 
their  journey’s  end,  he  begs  they  may 
go  more  slowly,  and  when  the  house 
appears  in  sight,  that  they  may  stop, 
only  for  a minute  or  two,  to  give  him 
time  to  breathe. 

But  there  is  no  stopping  then,  for 
the  old  gentleman  speaks  stoutly  to 
him,  the  horses  mend  their  pace,  and 
they  are  already  at  the  garden  gate. 
Next  minute,  they  are  at  the  door. 
There  is  a noise  of  tongues,  and  tread 
of  feet,  inside.  It  opens.  Kit  rushes 
in,  and  finds  his  mother  clinging  round 
his  neck. 

And  there,  too,  is  the  ever-faithful 
Barbara’s  mother,  still  holding  the  baby 
as  if  she  had  never  put  it  down  since 
that  sad  day  when  they  little  hoped 
to  have  such  joy  as  this,  — there  she  is, 
Heaven  bless  her,  crying  her  eyes  out, 
and  sobbing  as  never  woman  sobbed 
before  ; and  there  is  little  Barbara,  — 
poor  little  Barbara,  so  much  thinner 
and  so  much  paler,  and  yet  so  very  pret- 
ty, — trembling  like  a leaf,  and  support- 
ing herself  against  the  wall ; and  there 


is  Mrs.  Garland,  neater  and  nicer  than 
ever,  fainting  away  stone  dead  with 
nobody  to  help  her ; and  there  is  Mr. 
Abel,  violently  blowing  his  nose,  and 
wanting  to  embrace  everybody ; and 
there  is  the  single  gentleman  hovering 
round  them  all,  and  constant  to  nothing 
for  an  instant ; and  there  is  that  good, 
dear,  thoughtful  little  Jacob,  sitting  all 
alone  by  himself  on  the  bottom  stair,  with 
his  hands  on  his  knees  like  an  old  man, 
roaring  fearfully  without  giving  any 
trouble  to  anybody  ; and  each  and  all  of 
them  are  for  the  time  clean  out  of  their 
wits,  and  do  jointly  and  severally  com- 
mit all  manner  of  follies. 

And  even  when  the  rest  have  in  some 
measure  come  to  themselves  again,  and 
can  find  words  and  smiles,  Barbara  — 
that  soft-hearted,  gentle,  foolish  little 
Barbara  — is  suddenly  missed  and 
found  to  be  in  a swoon  by  herself  in  the 
back  parlor,  from  which  swoon  she  falls 
into  hysterics,  and  from  which  hyster- 
ics into  a swoon  again,  and  is,  indeed, 
so  bad  that,  despite  a mortal  quantity  of 
vinegar  and  cold  water,  she  is  hardly  a 
bit  better  at  last  than  she  was  at  first. 
Then  Kit’s  mother  comes  in  and  says, 
will  he  come  and  speak  to  her ; and 
Kit  says,  “Yes,”  and  goes;  and  he 
says  in  a kind  voice,  “ Barbara  ! ” and 
Barbara’s  mother  tells  her  that  “it’s 
only  Kit'”  ; and  Barbara  says  (with  her 
eyes  closed  all  the  time)  “Oh  ! but  is  it 
him  indeed  ? ” and  Barbara’s  mother 
says,  “To  be  sure  it  is,  my  dear ; 
there ’s  nothing  the  matter  now.”  And 
in  further  assurance  that  he ’s  safe  and 
sound,  Kit  speaks  to  her  again ; and 
then  Barbara  goes  off  into  another  fit  of 
laughter,  and  then  into  another  fit  of 
crying  ; and  then  Barbara’s  mother  and 
Kit’s  mother  nod  to  each  other  and  pre- 
tend to  scold  her, — but  only  to  bring 
her  to  herself  the  faster,  bless  you ! — 
and  being  experienced  matrons,  and 
acute  at  perceiving  the  first  dawning 
symptoms  of  recovery,  they  comfort  Kit 
with  the  assurance  that  “ she  ’ll  do 
now,”  and  so  dismiss  him  to  the  place 
from  whence  he  came. 

Well  ! In  that  place  (which  is  the 
next  room)  there  are  decanters  of  wine, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  set  out  as 
grand  as  if  Kit  and  his  friends  ^vere 


2g6 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


first-rate  company ; and  there  is  little 
Jacob,  walking,  as  the  popular  phrase  is, 
into  a home-made  plum-cake,  at  a most 
surprising  pace,  and  keeping  his  eye  on 
the  figs  and  oranges  which  are  to  follow, 
and  making  the  best  use  of  his  time, 
you  may  believe.  Kit  no  sooner  comes 
m,  than  that  single  gentleman  (never 
was  such  a busy  gentleman)  charges  all 
the  glasses  — bumpers  — and  drinks  his 
health,  and  tells  him  he  shall  never 
want  a friend  while  he  lives  ; and  so 
does  Mr.  Garland,  and  so  does  Mrs. 
Garland,  and  so  does  Mr.  Abel.  But 
even  this  honor  and  distinction  is  not 
all,  for  the  single  gentleman  forthwith 
pulls  out  of  his  pocket  a massive  silver 
watch,  — going  hard,  and  right  to  half  a 
second,  — and  upon  the  back  of  this 
watch  is  engraved  Kit’s  name,  with 
flourishes  all  over ; and  in  short  it  is 
Kit’s  watch,  bought  expressly  for  him, 
and  presented  to  nim  on  the  spot.  You 
may  rest  assured  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Garland  can’t  help  hinting  about  their 
present  in  store,  and  that  Mr.  Abel 
tells  outright  that  he  has  his ; and  that 
Kit  is  the  happiest  of  the  happy. 

There  is  one  friend  he  has  not  seen 
yet,  and  as  he  cannot  be  conveniently 
introduced  into  the  family  circle,  by  rea- 
son of  his  being  an  iron-shod  quadru- 
ped, Kit  takes  the  first  opportunity  of 
slipping  away  and  hurrying  to  the  sta- 
ble. The  moment  he  lays  his  hand 
upon  the  latch,  the  pony  neighs  the 
loudest  pony’s  greeting ; before  he 
has  crossed  the  threshold,  the  pony  is 
capering  about  his  loose  box  (for  he 
brooks  not  the  indignity  of  a halter), 
mad  to  give  him  welcome  ; and  when 
Kit  goes  up  to  caress  and  pat  him*  the 
pony  rubs  his  nose  against  his  coat,  and 
fondles  him  more  lovingly  than  ever 
pony  fondled  man.  It  is  the  crown- 
ing circumstance  of  his  earnest,  heart- 
felt reception  ; and  Kit  fairly  puts  his 
arm  round  Whisker’s  neck  and  hugs 
him. 

But  how  comes  Barbara  to  trip  in 
there  ? and  how  smart  she  is  again  ! 
She  has  been  at  her  glass  since  she 
recovered.  How  comes  Barbara  in  the 
stable,  of  all  places  in  the  world  ? Why, 
since  Kit  has  been  away,  the  pony 
would  take  his  food  from  nobody  but 


her,  and  Barbara,  you  see,  not  dream- 
ing Christopher  was  there,  and  just 
looking  in  to  see  that  everything  was 
right,  has  come  upon  him  unawares. 
Blushing  little  Barbara ! 

It  may  be  that  Kit  has  caressed  the 
pony  enough  ; it  may  be  that  there  are 
even  better  things  to  caress  than  ponies. 
He  leaves  him  for  Barbara  at  any  rate, 
and  hopes  she  is  better.  Yes.  Barba- 
ra is  a great  deal  better.  She  is  afraid 
— and  here  Barbara  looks  down  and 
blushes  more  — that  he  must  have 
thought  her  very  foolish.  “Not  at 
all,”  says  Kit.  Barbara  is  glad  of  that, 
and  coughs  — Hem! — just  the  slight- 
est cough  possible  — not  more  than 
that. 

What  a discreet  pony,  when  he  choos- 
es ! He  is  as  quiet  now  as  if  he  were 
of  marble.  He  has  a very  knowing 
look,  but  that  he  always  has.  “We 
have  hardly  had  time  to  shake  hands, 
Barbara,”  says  Kit.  Barbara  gives 
him  hers.  Why,  she  is  trembling  now  ! 
Foolish,  fluttering  Barbara  ! 

Arm’s  length?  The  length  of  an 
arm  is  not  much.  Barbara’s  was  not 
a long  arm,  by  any  means,  and  besides, 
she  did  n’t  hold  it  out  straight,  but  bent 
a little.  Kit  was  so  near  her  when 
they  shook  hands,  that  he  could  see  a 
small  tiny  tear  yet  trembling  on  an 
eyelash.  It  was  natural  that  he  should 
look  at  it,  unknown  to  Barbara.  It  was 
natural  that  Barbara  should  raise  her 
eyes  unconsciously,  and  find  him  out. 
Was  it  natural  that  at  that  instant, 
without  any  previous  impulse  or  de- 
sign, Kit  should  kiss  Barbara?  He 
did  it,  whether  or  no.  Barbara  said, 
“ For  shame  ! ” but  let  him  do  it  too, 
twice.  He  might  have  done  it  thrice, 
but  the  pony  kicked  up  his  heels  and 
shook  his  head,  as  if  he  were  suddenly 
taken  with  convulsions  of  delight,  and 
Barbara,  being  frightened,  ran  away,  — 
not  straight  to  where  her  mother  and 
Kit’s  mother  were,  though,  lest  they 
should  see  how  red  her  cheeks  were, 
and  should  ask  her  why.  Sly  little 
Barbara  ! 

When  the  first  transports  of  the  whole 
party  had  subsided,  and  Kit  and  his 
mother  and  Barbara  and  her  mother, 
with  little  Jacob  and  the  baby  to  boot. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


297 


had  had  their  suppers  together,  — 
which  there  was  no  hurrying  over,  for 
they  were  going  to  stop  there  all  night, 
— Mr.  Garland  called  Kit  to  him,  and, 
taking  him  into  a room  where  they 
could  be  alone,  told  him  that  he  had 
something  yet  to  say  which  would  sur- 
prise him  greatly.  Kit  looked  so  anx- 
ious and  turned  so  pale  on  hearing 
this,  that  the  old  gentleman  hastened 
to  add,  he  would  be  agreeably  surprised, 
and  asked  him  if  he  would  be  ready 
next  morning  for  a journey. 

“ For  a journey,  sir!”  cried  Kit. 

“In  company  with  me  and  my  friend 
in  the  next  room.  Can  you  guess  its 
purpose?  ” 

Kit  turned  paler  yet,  and  shook  his 
head. 

“ O yes.  I think  you  do  already,” 
said  his  master.  “Try.” 

Kit  murmured  something  rather  ram- 
bling and  unintelligible,  but  he  plainly 
pronounced  the  words,  “ Miss  Nell,” 
three  or  four  times,  shaking  his  head 
while  he  did  so,  as  if  he  would  add  that 
there  was  no  hope  of  that. 

But  Mr.  Garland,  instead  of  saying, 
“ Try  again,”  as  Kit  had  made  sure  he 
would,  told  him,  very  seriously,  that 
he  had  guessed  right. 

“ The  place  of  their  retreat  is  indeed 
discovered,”  he  said,  “at  last.  And 
that  is  our  journey’s  end.” 

Kit  faltered  out  such  questions  as, 
where  was  it,  and  how  had  it  been 
found,  and  how  long  since,  and  was 
she  well  and  happy  ? 

“ Happy  she  is,  beyond  all  doubt,” 
said  Mr.  Garland.  “And  well,  I — 
I trust  she  will  be  soon.  She  has  been 
weak  and  ailing,  as  I learn,  but  she 
was  better  when  I heard  this  morn- 
ing, and  they  were  full  of  hope.  Sit 
you  down,  and  you  shall  hear  the 
rest.” 

Scarcely  venturing  to  draw  his  breath, 
Kit  did  as  he  was  told.  Mr.  Garland 
then  related  to  him,  how  he  had  a 
brother  (of  whom  he  would  remember 
to  have  heard  him  speak,  and  whose 
picture,  taken  when  he  was  a young 
man,  hung  in  the  best  room),  and  how 
this  brother  lived  a long  way  off,  in  a 
country-place,  with  an  old  clergyman 
who  had  been  his  early  friend.  How,  al- 


though they  loved  each  other  as  broth- 
ers should,  they  had  not  met  for  many 
years,  but  had  communicated  by  letter 
from  time  to  time,  always  looking  for- 
ward to  some  period  when  they  would 
take  each  other  by  the  hand  once  more, 
and  still  letting  the  Present  time  steal 
on,  as  it  was  the  habit  of  men  to  do, 
and  suffering  the  Future  to  melt  into 
the  Past.  How  this  brother,  whose 
temper  was  very  mild  and  quiet  and 
retiring,  — such  as  Mr.  Abel’s,  — was 
greatly  beloved  by  the  simple  people 
among  whom  he  dwelt,  who  quite  re- 
vered the  bachelor  (for  so  they  called 
him),  and  had  every  one  experienced 
his  charity  and  benevolence.  How, 
even  those  slight  circumstances  had 
come  to  his  knowledge,  very  slowly  and 
in  course  of  years,  for  the  bachelor  was 
one  of  those  whose  goodness  shuns  the 
light,  and  who  have  more  pleasure  in 
discovering  and  extolling  the  good  deeds 
of  others,  than  in  trumpeting  their  own, 
be  they  never  so  commendable.  How 
for  that  reason,  he  seldom  told  them  of 
his  village  friends  ; but  how,  for  all  that, 
his  mind  had  become  so  full  of  two 
among  them,  — a child  and  an  old  man, 
to  whom  he  had  been  very  kind,  — that, 
in  a letter  received  a few  days  before* 
he  had  dwelt  upon  them  from  first  to 
last,  and  had  told  such  a tale  of  their 
wandering  and  mutual  love,  that  few 
could  read  it  without  being  moved  to 
tears.  How  he,  the  recipient  of  that 
letter,  was  directly  led  to  the  belief  that 
these  must  be  the  very  wanderers  for 
whom  so  much  search  had  been  made, 
and  whom  Heaven  had  directed  to  his 
brother’s  care.  How  he  had  written  for 
such  further  information  as  would  put 
the  fact  beyond  all  doubt  ; how  it  had 
that  morning  arrived,  had  confirmed 
his  first  impression  into  a certainty, 
and  was  the  immediate  cause  of  that 
journey  being  planned  which  they  were 
to  take  to-morrow. 

“In  the  mean  time,”  said  the  old 
gentleman,  rising,  and  laying  his  hand 
on  Kit’s  shoulder,  “ you  have  great 
need  of  rest ; for  such  a day  as  this 
would  wear  out  the  strongest  man. 
Good  night,  and  Heaven  send  our 
journey  may  have  a prosperous  end- 
ing ! ” 


293 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


CHAPTER  LXIX. 

Kit  was  no  sluggard  next  morning, 
but,  springing  from  his  bed  some  time 
before  day,  began  to  prepare  for  his 
welcome  expedition.  The  hurry  of 
spirits  consequent  upon  the  events  of 
yesterday,  and  the  unexpected  intelli- 
gence he  had  heard  at  night,  had  trou- 
bled his  sleep  through  the  long  dark 
hours,  and  summoned  such  uneasy 
dreams  about  his  pillow  that  it  was  rest 
to  rise. 

But  had  it  been  the  beginning  of 
some  great  labor  with  the  same  end  in 
view,  — had  it  been  the  commencement 
of  a long  journey,  to  be  performed  on 
foot  in  that  inclement  season  of  the 
year,  to  be  pursued  under  every  priva- 
tion and  difficulty,  and  to  be  achieved 
only  with  great  distress,  fatigue,  and 
suffering,  — had  it  been  the.  dawn  of 
some  painful  enterprise,  certain  to  task 
his  utmost  powers  of  resolution  and 
endurance,  and  to  need  his  utmost  forti- 
tude, but  only  likely  to  end,  if  happily 
achieved,  in  good  fortune  and  delight 
to  Nell,  — Kit’s  cheerful  zeal  would 
have  been  as  highly  roused ; Kit’s  ar- 
dor and  impatience  would  have  been, 
at  least,  the  same. 

Nor  was  he  alone  excited  and  eager. 
Before  he  had  been  up  a quarter  of  an 
hour,  the  whole  house  were  astir  and 
busy.  Everybody  hurried  to  do  some- 
thing towards  facilitating  the  prepara- 
tions. The  single  gentleman,  it  is  true, 
could  do  nothing  himself,  but  he  over- 
looked everybody  else  and  was  more 
locomotive  than  anybody.  The  work  of 
packing  and  making  ready  went  briskly 
on,  and  by  daybreak  every  preparation 
for  the  journey  was  completed.  Then 
Kit  began  to  wish  they  had  not  been 
quite  so  nimble  ; for  the  travelling-car- 
riage which  had  been  hired  for  the  occa- 
sion was  not  to  arrive  until  nine  o’clock, 
and  there  was  nothing  but  breakfast  to 
fill  up  the  intervening  blank  of  one  hour 
and  a half. 

Yes  there  was,  though.  There  was 
Barbara.  Barbara  was  busy  to  be  sure, 
but  so  much  the  better  ; Kit  could  help 
her,  and  that  would  pass  away  the 
lime  better  than  any  means  that  could  be 
devised.  Barbara  had  no  objection  to 


this  arrangement,  and  Kit,  tracking  out 
the  idea  which  had  come  upon  him  so 
suddenly  overnight,  began  to  think  that 
surely  Barbara  was  fond  of  him,  and 
surely  he  was  fond  of  Barbara. 

Now,  Barbara,  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  — as  it  must  and  ought  to  be,  — 
Barbara  seemed,  of  all  the  little  house- 
hold, to  take  least  pleasure  in  the  bus- 
tle of  the  occasion  ; and  when  Kit,  in 
the  openness  of  his  heart,  told  her  how 
glad  and  overjoyed  it  made  him,  Bar- 
bara became  more  downcast  still,  and 
seemed  to  have  even  less  pleasure  in  it 
than  before  ! 

“You  have  not  been  home  so  long, 
Christopher,”  said  Barbara,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  tell  how  carelessly  she 
said  it,  — “ you  have  not  been  home 
so  long  that  you  need  be  glad  to  go 
away  again,  I should  think.” 

“But  for  such  a purpose,”  returned 
Kit.  “ To  bring  back  Miss  Nell ! To 
see  her  again  ! Only  think  of  that ! I 
am  so  pleased  too,  to  think  that  you 
will  see  her,  Barbara,  at  last.” 

Barbara  did  not  absolutely  say  that 
she  felt  no  great  gratification  on  this 
point,  but  she  expressed  the  sentiment 
so  plainly  by  one  little  toss  of  her  head, 
that  Kit  was  quite  disconcerted,  and 
wondered,  in  his  simplicity,  why  she 
was  so  cool  about  it. 

“You’ll  say  she  has  the  sweetest 
and  beautifullest  face  you  ever  saw,  I 
know,”  said  Kit,  rubbing  his  hands. 
“ I ’m  sure  you  ’ll  say  that ! ” 

Barbara  tossed  her  head  again. 

“ What ’s  the  matter,  Barbara  ? ” said 
Kit. 

“ Nothing,”  cried  Barbara.  And 
Barbara  pouted, — not  sulkily,  or  in  an 
ugly  manner,  but  just  enough  to  make 
her  look  more  cherry-lipped  than  ever. 

There  is  no  school  in  which  a pupil 
gets  on  so  fast  as  that  in  which  Kit  be- 
came a scholar  when  he  gave  Barbara 
the  kiss.  He  saw  what  Barbara  meant 
now,  — he  had  his  lesson  by  heart  all  at 
once,  — she  was  the  book,  — there  it  was 
before  him,  as  plain  as  print. 

“Barbara,”  said  Kit,  “you’re  not 
cross  with  me?” 

O dear,  no  ! Why  should  Barbara  be 
cross?  And  what  right  had  she  to  be 
cross  ? And  what  did  it  matter  wheth- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


299 


er  she  was  cross  or  no  ? Who  minded 
her  ! 

“ Why,  / do,”  said  Kit.  “ Of  course 
I do.” 

Barbara  didn’t  see  why  it  was  of 
course,  at  all. 

Kit  was  sure  she  must.  Would  she 
think  again? 

Certainly,  Barbara  would  think  again. 
No,  she  didn’t  see  why  it  was  of  course. 
She  didn’t  understand  what  Christo- 
pher meant.  And  besides,  she  was  sure 
they  wanted  her  up  stairs  by  this  time, 
and  she  must  go,  indeed  — 

“No,  but,  Barbara,”  said  Kit,  de- 
taining her  gently,  “ let  us  part  friends. 

I was  always  thinking  of  you,  in  my 
troubles.  I should  have  been  a great 
deal  more  miserable  than  I was,  if  it 
hadn’t  been  for  you.” 

Goodness  gracious,  how  pretty  Bar- 
bara was  when  she  colored  — and  when 
she  trembled,  like  a little  shrinking 
bird  ! 

“Iam  telling  you  the  truth,  Barbara, 
upon  my  word,  but  not  half  so  strong 
as  I could  wish,”  said  Kit.  “ When  I 
want  you  to  be  pleased  to  see  Miss  Nell, 
it ’s  only  because  I should  like  you  to 
be  pleased  with  what  pleases  me,  — 
that ’s  all.  As  to  her,  Barbara,  I think 
I could  almost  die  to  do  her  service  ; but 
you  would  think  so  too,  if  you  knew  her 
as  I do.  I am  sure  you  would.” 

Barbara  was  touched,  and  sorry  to 
have  appeared  indifferent. 

“ I have  been  used,  you  see,”  said 
Kit,  “ to  talk  and  think  of  her,  almost 
as  if  she  was  an  angel.  When  I look 
forward  to  meeting  her  again,  I think 
of  her  smiling  as  she  used  to  do,  and 
being  glad  to  see  me,  and  putting  out 
her  hand  and  saying,  ‘ It ’s  my  own  old 
Kit,’  or  some  such  words  as  those,  — 
like  what  she  used  to  say.  I think  of 
seeing  her  happy,  and  with  friends  about 
her,  and  brought  up  as  she  deserves, 
and  as  she  ought  to  be.  When  I think 
of  myself,  it ’s  as  her  old  servant,  and  one 
that  loved  her  dearly,  as  his  kind,  good, 
gentle  mistress  ; and  who  would  have 
gone  — yes,  and  still  would  go  — through 
any  harm  to  serve  her.  Once.  I could 
n’t  help  being  afraid  that  if  she  came 
back  with  friends  about  her,  she  might 
forget  or  be  ashamed- of  having  known  a 


humble  lad  like  me,  and  so  might  speak 
coldly,  which  would  have  cut  me,  Bar- 
bara, deeper  than  I can  tell.  But  when 
I came  to  think  again,  I felt  sure  that  I 
was  doing  her  wrong  in  this  ; and  so  I 
went  on,  as  I did  at  first,  hoping  to  see 
her  once  more,  just  as  she  used  to  be. 
Hoping  this,  and  remembering  what  she 
was,  has  made  me  feel  as  if  I would 
always  try  to  please  her,  and  always  be 
what  I should  like  to  seem  to  her  if  I 
was  still  her  servant.  If  I ’m  the  better 
for  that,  — and  I don’t  think  I ’m  the 
worse,  — I am  grateful  to  her  for  it,  and 
love  and  honor  her  the  more.  That ’s 
the  plain  honest  truth,  dear  Barbara, 
upon  my  word  it  is  ! ” 

Little  Barbara  was  not  of  a wayward 
or  capricious  nature,  and,  being  full  of 
remorse,  melted  into  tears.  To  what 
more  conversation  this  might  have  led 
we  need  not  stop  to  inquire  ; for  the 
wheels  of  the  carriage  were  heard  at 
that  moment,  and,  being  followed  by  a 
smart  ring  at  the  garden  gate,  caused 
the  bustle  in  the  house,  which  had  lain 
dormant  for  a short  time,  to  burst  again 
into  tenfold  life  and  vigor. 

Simultaneously  with  the  travelling 
equipage  arrived  Mr.  Chuckster  in  a 
hackney  cab,  with  certain  papers  and 
supplies  of  money  for  the  single  gen- 
tleman, into  whose  hands  he  delivered 
them.  This  duty  discharged,  he  sub- 
sided into  the  bosom  of  the  family  ; 
and,  entertaining  himself  with  a stroll- 
ing or  peripatetic  breakfast,  watched 
with  a genteel  indifference  the  process 
of  loading  the  carriage. 

“Snobby’s  in  this,  I see,  sir?”  he 
said  to  Mr.  Abel  Garland.  “ I thought 
he  was  n’t  in  the  last  trip  because  it 
was  expected  that  his  presence  would  n’t 
be  acceptable  to  the  ancient  buffalo.” 

“ To  whom,  sir,”  demanded  Mr. 
Abel. 

“ To  the  old  gentleman,”  returned 
Mr.  Chuckster,  slightly  abashed. 

“ Our  client  prefers  to  take  him  now,” 
said  Mr.  Abel,  dryly.  “There  is  no 
longer  any  need  for  that  precaution,  as 
my  father’s  relationship  to  a gentleman 
in  whom  the  objects  of  his  search  have 
full  confidence,  will  be  a sufficient  guar- 
anty for  the  friendly  nature  of  their 
errand.” 


300 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


“ Ah  ! ” thought  Mr.  Chuckster,  look- 
ing out  of  window,  “ anybody  but  me  ! 
Snobby  before  me,  of  course.  He 
did  n’t  happen  to  take  that  particular 
five-pound  note,  but  I have  not  the 
smallest  doubt  that  hfe ’s  always  up  to 
something  of  that  sort.  I always  said 
it,  long  before  this  came  out.  Devilish 
pretty  girl  that ! ’Pon  my  soul,  an 
amazing  little  creature  ! ” 

Barbara  was  the  subject  of  Mr. 
Chuckster’s  commendations ; and  as 
she  was  lingering  near  the  carriage  (all 
being  now  ready  for  its  departure),  that 
gentleman  was  suddenly  seized  with  a 
strong  interest  in  the  proceedings, 
which  impelled  him  to  swagger  down 
the  garden,  and  take  up  his  position  at 
a convenient  ogling  distance.  Having 
had  great  experience  of  the  sex,  and 
being  perfectly  acquainted  with  all 
those  little  artifices  which  find  the  readi- 
est road  to  their  hearts,  Mr.  Chuckster, 
on  taking  his  ground,  planted  one  hand 
on  his  hip,  and  with  the  other  adjusted 
his  flowing  hair.  This  is  a favorite  at- 
titude in  the  polite  circles,  and,  accom- 
panied with  a graceful  whistling,  has 
been  known  to  do  immense  execution. 

Such,  however,  is  the  difference  be- 
tween town  and  country,  that  nobody 
took  the  smallest  notice  of  this  insinuat- 
ing figure  ; the  wretches  being  wholly 
engaged  in  bidding  the  travellers  fare- 
well, in  kissing  hands  to  each  other, 
waving  handkerchiefs,  and  the  like  tame 
and  vulgar  practices.  For  now  the 
single  gentleman  and  Mr.  Garland  were 
in  the  carriage,  and  the  post-boy  was 
in  the  saddle,  and  Kit,  well  wrapped 
and  muffled  up,  was  in  the  rumble  be- 
hind ; and  Mrs.  Garland  was  there,  and 
Mr.  Abel  was  there,  and  Kit’s  mother 
was  there,  and  little  Jacob  was  there, 
and  Barbara’s  mother  was  visible  in 
remote  perspective,  nursing  the  ever- 
wakeful  baby ; and  all  were  nodding, 
beckoning,  courtesying,  or  crying  out, 
“ Good  by  ! ” with  all  the  energy  they 
could  express.  In  another  minute,  the 
carriage  was  out  of  sight  ; and  Mr. 
Chuckster  remained  alone  on  the  spot 
where  it  had  lately  been,  with  a vision 
of  Kit  standing  up  in  the  rumble  wav- 
ing his  hand  to  Barbara,  and  of  Bar- 
bara, in  the  full  light  and  lustre  of  his 


eyes, — his  eyes — Chuckster’s—-  Chuck- 
ster the  successful  — on  whom  ladies  of 
quality  had  looked  with  favor  from  phae- 
tons in  the  parks  on  Sundays,  — waving 
hers  to  Kit  ! 

How  Mr.  Chuckster,  entranced  by 
this  monstrous  fact,  stood  for  some  time 
rooted  to  the  earth,  protesting  within 
himself  that  Kit  was  the  prince  of  fe- 
lonious characters,  and  very  Emperor 
or  Great  Mogul  of  Snobs,  and  how  he 
clearly  traced  this  revolting  circum- 
stance back  to  that  old  villany  of  the 
shilling,  are  matters  foreign  to  our  pur- 
pose, which  is  to  track  the  rolling 
wheels,  and  bear  the  travellers  com- 
pany on  their  cold,  bleak  journey. 

It  was  a bitter  day.  A keen  wind 
was  blowing,  and  rushed  against  them 
fiercely,  bleaching  the  hard  ground, 
shaking  the  white  frost  from  the  trees 
and  hedges,  and  whirling  it  away  like 
dust.  But  little  cared  Kit  for  weather. 
There  was  a freedom  and  freshness  in 
the  wind,  as  it  came  howling  by,  which, 
let  it  cut  never  so  sharp,  was  welcome. 
As  it  swept  on  with  its  cloud  of  frost, 
bearing  down  the  dry  twigs  and  boughs 
and  withered  leaves,  and  carrying  them 
away  pellmell,  it  seemed  as  though 
some  general  sympathy  had  got  abroad, 
and  everything  was  in  a hurry,  like 
themselves.  The  harder  the  gusts,  the 
better  progress  they  appeared  to  make. 
It  was  a good  thing  to  go  struggling 
and  fighting  forward,  vanquishing  them 
one  by  one  ; to  watch  them  driving 
up,  gathering  strength  and  fury  as  they 
came  along  ; to  bend  for  a moment 
as  they  whistled  past ; and  then  to 
look  back  and  see  them  speed  away, 
their  hoarse  noise  dying  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  the  stout  trees  cowering 
down  before  them. 

All  day  long  it  blew  without  cessation. 
The  night  was  clear  and  starlight,  but 
the  wind  had  not  fallen,  and  the  cold 
was  piercing.  Sometimes  — towards  the 
end  of  a long  stage  — Kit  could  not  help 
wishing  it  were  a little  warmer  ; but 
when  they  stopped  to  change  horses, 
and  he  had  had  a good  run,  and  what 
with  that,  and  the  bustle  of  paying  the 
old  postilion,  and  rousing  the  new  one, 
and  running  to  and  fro  again  until  the 
horses  were  put  to,  he  was  so  warm 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


that  the  blood  tingled  and  smarted  in 
his  fingers’  ends, — then  he  felt  as  if 
to  have  it  one  degree  less  cold  would 
be  to  lose  half  the  delight  and  glory 
of  the  journey ; and  up  he  jumped 
again,  right  cheerily,  singing  to  the 
merry  music  of  the  wheels  as  they 
rolled  away,  and,  leaving  the  towns- 
people in  their  warm  beds,  pursued 
their  course  along  the  lonely  road. 

Meanwhile  the  two  gentlemen  inside, 
who  were  little  disposed  to  sleep,  be- 

fuiled  the  time  with  conversation.  As 
oth  were  anxious  and  expectant,  it 
naturally  turned  upon  the  subject  of 
their  expedition,  on  the  manner  in 
which  it  had  been  brought  about,  and 
on  the  hopes  and  fears  they  entertained 
respecting  it.  Of  the  former  they  had 
many,  of  the  latter  few,  — none  per- 
haps beyond  that  indefinable  uneasi- 
ness which  is  inseparable  from  sudden- 
ly awakened  hope,  and  protracted  ex- 
pectation. 

In  one  of  the  pauses  of  their  discourse, 
and  when  half  the  night  had  worn  away, 
the  single  gentleman,  who  had  gradu- 
ally become  more  and  more  silent  and 
thoughtful,  turned  to  his  companion 
and  said  abruptly,  — 

“ Are  you  a good  listener?  ” 

“Like  most  other  men,  I suppose,” 
returned  Mr.  Garland,  smiling.  “ I 
can  be,  if  I am  interested ; and  if  not 
interested,  I should  still  try  to  appear 
so.  Why  do  you  ask  ? ” 

“ I have  a short  narrative  on  my  lips,” 
rejoined  his  friend,  “and  will  try  you 
with  it.  It  is  very  brief.” 

Pausing  for  no  reply,  he  laid  his  hand 
on  the  old  gentleman’s  sleeve,  and  pro- 
ceeded thus : — 

“There  were  once  two  brothers,  who 
loved  each  other  dearly.  There  was  a 
disparity  in  their  ages, — some  twelve 
years.  I am  not  sure  but  they  may 
insensibly  have  loved  each  other  the 
better  for  that  reason.  Wide  as  the 
interval  between  them  was,  however, 
they  became  rivals  too  soon.  The 
deepest  and  strongest  affection  of  both 
their  hearts  settled  upon  one  object. 

“ The  youngest  — there  were  reasons 
for  his  being  sensitive  and  watchful  — 
was  the  first  to  find  this  out.  I wall 
not  tell  you  what  misery  he  under- 


301 

went,  what  agony  of  soul  he  knew, 
how  great  his  mental  struggle  was. 
He  had  been  a sickly  child.  His 
brother,  patient  and  considerate  in  the 
midst  of  his  own  high  health  and 
strength,  had  many  and  many  a day 
denied  himself  the  sports  he  loved,  to 
sit  beside  his  couch,  telling  him  old 
stories  till  his  pale  face  lighted  up  with 
an  unwonted  glow ; to  carry  him  in  his 
arms  to  some  green  spot,  where  he 
could  tend  the  poor  pensive  boy  as  he 
looked  upon  the  bright  summer  day, 
and  saw  all  nature  healthy  but  him- 
self; to  be,  in  any  way,  his  fond  and 
faithful  nurse.  I may  not  dwell  on  all 
he  did  to  make  the  poor,  weak  crea- 
ture love  him,  or  my  tale  would  have 
no  end.  But  when  the  time  of  trial 
came,  the  younger  brother’s  heart  was 
full  of  those  old  days.  Heaven  strength- 
ened it  to  repay  the  sacrifices  of  incon- 
siderate youth  by  one  of  thoughtful  man- 
hood. He  left  his  brother  to  be  happy, 
The  truth  never  passed  his  lips,  and 
he  quitted  the  country  hoping  to  die 
abroad. 

“ The  elder  brother  married  her.  She 
was  in  heaven  before  long,  and  left  him, 
with  an  infant  daughter. 

“ If  you  have  seen  the  picture-gallery 
of  any  one  old  family,  you  will  remem- 
ber how  the  same  face  and  figure  — of- 
ten the  fairest  and  slightest  of  them  all 
— come  upon  you  in  different  genera- 
tions ; and  how  you  trace  the  same  sweet 
girl  through  a long  line  of  portraits, — 
never  growing  old  or  changing,  — the 
Good  Angel  of  the  race,  — abiding  by 
them  in  all  reverses,  — redeeming  all 
their  sins. 

“ In  this  daughter  the  mother  lived 
again.  You  may  judge  with  what  de- 
votion he  who  lost  that  mother,  almost 
in  the  winning,  clung  to  this  girl,  her 
breathing  image.  She  grew  to  woman- 
hood, and  gave  her  heart  to  one  who 
could  not  know  its  worth.  Well  ! Her 
fond  father  could  not  see  her  pine  and 
droop.  He  might  be  more  deserving 
than  he  thought  him.  He  surely  might 
become  so,  with  a wife  like  her.  He 
joined  their  hands,  and  they  were  mar- 
ried. 

“ Through  all  the  misery  that  fol- 
lowed this  union  ; through  all  the. 


302 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


cold  neglect  and  undeserved  reproach  ; 
through  all  the  poverty  he  brought  upon 
her  ; through  all  the  struggles  of  their 
daily  life,  too  mean  and  pitiful  to  tell, 
but  dreadful  to  endure  ; she  toiled  on, 
in  the  deep  devotion  of  her  spirit,  and 
in  her  better  nature,  as  only  women 
can.  Her  means  and  substance  wast- 
ed, her  father  nearly  beggared  by  her 
husband’s  hand,  and  the  hourly  witness 
(for  they  lived  now'  under  qne  roof) 
of  her  ill-usage  and  unhappiness,  she 
never,  but  for  him,  bewailed  her  fate. 
Patient,  and  upheld  by  strong  affection 
to  the  last,  she  died  a widow  of  some 
three  weeks’  date,  leaving  to  her  fa- 
ther’s care  two  orphans,  — one  a son  of 
ten  or  twelve  years  old,  the  other  a 
girl,  — such  another  infant  child,  — the 
same  in  helplessness,  in  age,  in  form,  in 
feature,  as  she  had  been  herself  w'hen 
her  young  mother  died. 

“ The  elder  brother,  grandfather  to 
these  two  children,  was  now  a broken 
man  ; crushed  and  borne  down,  less  by 
the  weight  of  years  than  by  the  heavy 
hand  of  sorrow.  With  the  wreck  of  his 
possessions,  he  began  to  trade,  — in  pic- 
tures first,  and  then  in  curious  ancient 
things.  He  had  entertained  a fondness 
for  such  matters  from  a boy,  and  the 
tastes  he  had  cultivated  were  now  to 
yield  him  an  anxious  and  precarious 
subsistence. 

“The  boy  grew  like  his  father  in 
mind  and  person  ; the  girl  so  like  her 
mother  that  when  the  old  man  had  her 
on  his  knee,  and  looked  into  her  mild 
blue  eyes,  he  felt  as  if  awakening  from 
a wretched  dream,  and  his  daughter 
were  a little  child  again.  The  wayward 
boy  soon  spurned  the  shelter  of  his  roof, 
and  sought  associates  more  congenial  to 
his  taste.  The  old  man  and  the  child 
dwelt  alone  together. 

“ It  was  then,  when  the  love  of  two 
dead  people  who  had  been  nearest  and 
dearest  to  his  heart  was  all  transferred 
to  this  slight  creature ; when  her  face, 
constantly  before  him,  reminded  him, 
from  hour  to  hour,  of  the  too  early 
change  he  had  seen  in  such  another,  — 
of  all  the  sufferings  he  had  watched  and 
known,  and  all  his  child  had  under- 
gone ; when  the  young  man’s  profligate 
and  hardened  course  drained  him  of 


money  as  his  father’s  had,  and  even 
sometimes  occasioned  them  temporary 
privation  and  distress,  — it  was  then  that 
there  began  to  beset  him,  and  to  be 
ever  in  his  mind,  a gloomy  dread  of 
poverty  and  want.  He  had  no  thought 
for  himself  in  this.  His  fear  was  for 
the  child.  It  was  a spectre  in  his 
house,  and  haunted  him  night  and  day. 

“ The  younger  brother  had  been  a 
traveller  in  many  countries,  and  had 
made  his  pilgrimage  through  life  alone. 
His  voluntary  banishment  had  been 
misconstrued,  and  he  had  borne  (not 
without  pain)  reproach  and  slight  for 
doing  that  which  had  wrung  his  heart, 
and  cast  a mournful  shadow  on  his  path. 
Apart  from  this,  communication  be- 
tween him  and  the  elder  was  difficult 
and  uncertain,  and  often  failed  ; still,  it 
was  not  so  wholly  broken  off  but  that 
he  learnt,  — with  long  blanks  and  gaps 
between  each  interval  of  information- 
al! that  I have  told  you  now. 

“ Then,  dreams  of  their  young,  happy 
life  — happy  to  him  though  laden  with 
pain  and  early  care  — visited  his  pillow 
yet  oftener  than  before  ; and  every  night, 
a boy  again,  he  was  at  his  brother’s 
side.  With  the  utmost  speed  he  could 
exert,  he  settled  his  affairs,  converted 
into  money  all  the  goods  he  had,  and, 
with  honorable  wealth  enough  for  both, 
with  open  heart  and  hand,  with  limbs 
that  trembled  as  they  bore  him  on,  with 
emotion  such  as  men  can  hardly  bear 
and  live,  arrived  one  evening  at  his 
brother’s  door ! ” 

The  narrator,  whose  voice  had  faltered 
lately,  stopped.  “ The  rest,”  said  Mr. 
Garland,  pressing  his  hand,  after  a 
pause,  “ I know.” 

“Yes,”  rejoined  his  friend,  we  may 
spare  ourselves  the  sequel.  You  know 
the  poor  result  of  all  my  search.  Even 
when,  by  dint  of  such  inquiries  as  the 
utmost  vigilance  and  sagacity  could  set 
on  foot,  we  found  they  had  been  seen 
with  two  poor  travelling  showmen, — 
and  in  time  discovered  the  men  them- 
selves,—and  in  time,  the  actual  place 
of  their  retreat  ; even  then,  we  were  too 
late.  Pray  God  we  are  not  too  late 
again  ! ” 

“We  cannot  be,”  said  Mr.  Garland. 
“This  time  w’e  must  succeed.” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


303 


“I  have  believed  and  hoped  so,” 
returned  the  other.  “ I try  to  believe 
and  hope  so  still.  But  a heavy  weight 
has  fallen  on  my  spirits,  my  good  friend, 
and  the  sadness  that  gathers  over  me 
will  yield  to  neither  hope  nor  reason.” 
“That  does  not  surprise  me,”  said  Mr. 
Garland  ; “ it  is  a natural  consequence 
of  the  events  you  have  recalled  ; of  this 
dreary  time  and  place ; and,  above  all, 
of  this  wild  and  dismal  night.  A dis- 
mal night,  indeed  ! Hark  ! how  the 
wind  is  howling  ! ” 


CHAPTER  LXX. 

Day  broke,  and  found  them  still  upon 
their  way.  Since  leaving  home,  they 
had  halted  here  and  there  for  necessary 
refreshment,  and  had  frequently  been 
delayed,  especially  in  the  night-time, 
by  waiting  for  fresh  horses.  They  had 
made  no  other  stoppages,  but  the 
weather  continued  rough,  and  the  roads 
were  often  steep  and  heavy.  It  would 
be  night  again  before  they  reached  their 
place  of  destination. 

Kit,  all  bluff  and  hardened  with  the 
cold,  went  on  manfully ; and,  having 
enough  to  do  to  keep  his  blood  circulat- 
ing to  picture  to  himself  the  happy 
end  of  this  adventurous  journey,  and  to 
look  about  him  and  be  amazed  at  every- 
thing, had  little  spare  time  for  thinking 
of  discomforts.  Though  his  impatience 
and  that  of  his  fellow-travellers  rapidly 
increased  as  the  day  waned,  the  hours 
did  not  stand  still.  The  short  daylight 
of  winter  soon  faded  away,  and  it  was 
dark  again  when  they  had  yet  many 
miles  to  travel. 

As  it  grew  dusk,  the  wind  fell  ; its 
distant  moanings  were  more  low  and 
mournful ; and,  as  it  came  creeping  up 
the  road,  and  rattling  covertly  among 
the  dry  brambles  on  either  hand,  it 
seemed  like  some  great  phantom  for 
whom  the  way  was  narrow,  whose  gar- 
ments rustled  as  it  stalked  along.  By 
degrees  it  lulled  and  died  away,  and 
then  it  came  on  to  snow. 

The  flakes  fell  fast  and  thick,  soon 
covering  the  ground  some  inches  deep, 
and  spreading  abroad  a solemn  stillness. 


The  rolling  wheels  were  noiseless,  and 
the  sharp  ring  and  clatter  of  the  horses’ 
hoofs  became  a dull,  muffled  tramp. 
The  life  of  their  progress  seemed  to 
be  slowly  hushed,  and  something  death- 
like to  usurp  its  place. 

Shading  his  eyes  from  the  falling 
snow,  which  froze  upon  their  lashes 
and  obscured  his  sight,  Kit  often  tried 
to  catch  the  earliest  glimpse  of  twink- 
ling lights  denoting  their  approach  to 
some  not  distant  town.  He  could  de- 
scry objects  enough  at  such  times,  but 
none  correctly.  Now,  a tall  church- 
spire  appeared  in  view,  which  presently 
became  a tree,  a barn,  a shadow  on  the 
ground,  thrown  on  it  by  their  own  bright 
lamps.  Now,  there  were  horsemen, 
foot-passengers,  carriages  going  on  be- 
fore, or  meeting  them  in  narrow  ways  ; 
which,  when  they  were  close  upon  them, 
turned  to  shadows  too.  A wall,  a ruin, 
a sturdy  gable-end,  w’ould  rise  up  in 
the  road  ; and,  when  they  were  plung- 
ing headlong  at  it,  would  be  the  road 
itself.  Strange  turnings  too,  bridges, 
and  sheets  of  water  appeared  to  start 
up  here  and  there,  making  the  way 
doubtful  and  uncertain  ; and  yet  they 
were  on  the  same  bare  road,  and  these 
things,  like  the  others,  as  they  were 
passed,  turned  into  dim  illusions. 

He  descended  slowly  from  his  seat  — 
for  his  limbs  were  numbed  — when 
they,  arrived  at  a lone  posting-house, 
and  inquired  how  far  they  had  to  go  to 
reach  their  journey’s  end.  It  was  a 
late  hour  in  such  by-places,  and  the 
people  were  abed ; but  a voice  an- 
swered from  an  upper  window,  “Ten 
miles.”  The  ten  minutes  that  ensued 
appeared  an  hour  ; but  at  the  end  of 
that  time,  a shivering  figure  led  out  the 
horses  they  required,  and  after  another 
brief  delay  they  were  again  in  motion. 

It  was  a cross-country  road,  full,  after 
the  first  three  or  four  miles,  of  holes 
and  cart-ruts,  which,  being  covered  by 
the  snow,  were  so  many  pitfalls  to  the 
trembling  horses,  and  obliged  them  to 
keep  a footpace.  As  it  was  next  to  im- 
possible for  men  so  much  agitated  as 
they  were  by  this  time  to  sit  still  and 
move  so  slowly,  all  three  got  out  and 
plodded  on  behind  the  carriage.  The 
distance  seemed  interminable,  and  the 


3°4 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


walk  was  most  laborious.  As  each  was 
thinking  within  himself  that  the  driver 
must  have  lost  his  way,  a church-bell, 
close  at  hand,  struck  the  hour  of  mid- 
night, and  the  carriage  stopped.  It 
had  moved  softly  enough,  but  when  it 
ceased  to  crunch  the  snow,  the  silence 
was  as  startling  as  if  some  great  noise 
had  been  replaced  by  perfect  stillness. 

“This  is  the  place,  gentlemen,”  said 
the  driver,  dismounting  from  his  horse, 
and  knocking  at  the  door  of  a little  inn. 
“ Halloa  ! Past  twelve  o’clock  is  the 
dead  of  night  here.” 

The  knocking  was  loud  and  long,  but 
it  failed  to  rouse  the  drowsy  inmates. 
All  continued  dark  and  silent  as  before. 
They  fell  back  a little,  and  looked  up  at 
the  windows,  which  were  mere  black 
patches  in  the  whitened  house-front. 
No  light  appeared.  The  house  might 
have  been  deserted,  or  the  sleepers 
dead,  for  any  air  of  life  it  had  about  it. 

They  spoke  together,  with  a strange 
inconsistency,  in  whispers,  unwilling 
to  disturb  again  the  dreary  echoes  they 
had  just  now  raised. 

“Let  us  go  on,”  said  the  younger 
brother,  “ and  leave  this  good  fellow  to 
wake  them,  if  he  can.  I cannot  rest 
until  I know  that  we  are  not  too  late. 
Let  us  go  on,  in  the  name  of  Heaven  ! ” 

They  did  so,  leaving  the  postilion  to 
order  such  accommodation  as  the  house 
afforded,  and  to  renew  his  knocking. 
Kit  accompanied  them  w'ith  a little 
bundle,  which  he  had  hung  in  the  car- 
riage when  they  left  home,  and  had  not 
forgotten  since,  — the  bird  in  his  old 
cage,  just  as  she  had  left  him.  She 
would  be  glad  to  see  her  bird,  he  knew. 

The  road  wound  gently  downward. 
As  they  proceeded,  they  lost  sight  of 
the  church,  whose  clock  they  had  heard, 
and  of  the  small  village  clustering  round 
it.  The  knocking,  which  was  now  re- 
newed, and  which  in  that  stillness  they 
could  plainly  hear,  troubled  them. 
They  wished  the  man  would  forbear, 
or  that  they  had  told  him  not  to  break 
the  silence  until  they  returned. 

The  old  church-tower,  clad  in  a 
ghostly  garb  of  pure  cold  white,  again 
rose  up  before  them,  and  a few  mo- 
ments brought  them  close  beside  it. 
A venerable  building,  — gray,  even  in 


the  midst  of  the  hoary  landscape.  An 
ancient  sundial  on  the  belfry  wall  was 
nearly  hidden  by  the  snow-drift,  and 
scarcely  to  be  known  for  what  it  was. 
Time  itself  seemed  to  have  grown  dull 
and  old,  as  if  no  day  were  ever  to  dis- 
place the  melancholy  night. 

A wicket-gate  was  close  at  hand,  but 
there  was  more  than  one  path  across 
the  churchyard  to  which  it  led,  and, 
uncertain  which  to  take,  they  came  to  a 
stand  again. 

The  village  street  — if  street  that 
could  be  called  which  was  an  irregular 
cluster  of  poor  cottages  of  many  heights 
and  ages,  some  with  their  fronts,  some 
with  their  backs,  and  some  with  gable- 
ends  towards  the  road,  with  here  and 
there  a signpost,  or  a shed  encroaching 
on  the  path  — was  close  at  hand. 
There  was  a faint  light  in  a chamber 
window  not  far  off,  and  Kit  ran  towards 
that  house  to  ask  their  way. 

His  first  shout  was  answered  by  an 
old  man  within,  who  presently  appeared 
at  the  casement,  wrapping  some  gar- 
ment round  his  throat  as  a protection 
from  the  cold,  and  demanded  who  was 
abroad  at  that  unseasonable  hour  want- 
ing him. 

“ ’T  is  hard  weather  this,”  he  grurm 
bled,  “ and  not  a night  to  call  me  up 
in.  My  trade  is  not  of  that  kind  that  I 
need  be  roused  from  bed.  The  business 
on  which  folks  want  me  will  keep  cold, 
especially  at  this  season.  What  do  you 
want  ? ” 

“ I would  not  have  roused  you,  if  I 
had  known  you  were  old  and  ill,”  said 
Kit. 

“ Old  ! ” repeated  the  other  peevish- 
ly. “ How  do  you  know  I am  old  ? 
Not  so  old  as  you  think,  friend,  perhaps. 
As  to  being  ill,  you  will  find  many  young 
people  in  worse  case  than  I am.  More  ’s 
the  pity  that  it  should  be  so,  — not  that 
I should  be  strong  and  hearty  for  my 
years,  I mean,  but  that  they  should  be 
w’eak  and  tender.  I ask  your  pardon, 
though,”  said  the  old  man,  “ if  I spoke 
rather  rough  at  first.  My  eyes  are  not 
good  at  night,  — that ’s  neither  age  nor 
illness  ; they  never  w'ere,  — and  I did  n’t 
see  you  were  a stranger.” 

“ I am  sorry  to  call  you  from  your 
bed,”  said  Kit,  “ but  those  gentlemen 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


305 


you  may  see  by  the  churchyard  gate  are 
strangers  too,  who  have  just  arrived 
from  a long  journey,  and  seek  the  par- 
sonage-house. You  can  direct  us  ? ” 

“ I should  be  able  to,”  ansvyered  the 
old  man,  in  a trembling  voice,  “ for, 
come  next  summer,  I have  been  sexton 
here  good  fifty  years.  The  right-hand 
path,  friend,  is  the  road.  There  is 
no  ill  news  for  our  good  gentleman,  I 
hope?” 

Kit  thanked  him,  and  made  him  a 
hasty  answer  in  the  negative.  He  wras 
turning  back,  when  ‘his  attention  was 
caught  by  the  voice  of  a child.  Looking 
up  he  saw  a very  little  creature  at  a 
neighboring  window. 

“What  is  that?”  cried  the  child, 
earnestly.  “ Has  my  dream  come  true  ? 
Pray  speak  to  me,  whoever  that  is, 
awake  and  up.” 

“ Poor  boy  ! ” said  the  sexton,  before 
Kit  could  answer,  “ how  goes  it,  dar- 
ling? ” 

“Has  my  dream  come  true?”  ex- 
claimed the  child  again,  in  a voice  so 
fervent  that  it  might  have  thrilled  to 
the  heart  of  any  listener.  “ But  no, 
that  can  never  be  ! How  could  it  be 

— oh  ! how  could  it ! ” 

“ I guess  his  meaning,”  said  the  sex- 
ton. “ To  bed  again,  poor  boy  ! ” 

“ Ay  ! ” cried  the  child,  in  a burst  of 
despair.  “ I knew  it  could  never  be, 
I felt  too  sure  of  that,  before  I asked  ! 
But  all  to-night  and  last  night  too,  it 
was  the  same.  I never  fall  asleep  but 
that  cruel  dream  comes  back.” 

“Try  to  sleep  again,”  said  the  old 
man,  soothingly.  “ It  will  go,  in  time.” 

“ No,  no,  I would  rather  that  it  stayed, 

— cruel  as  it  is,  I would  rather  that  it 
stayed,”  rejoined  the  child.  “ I am  not 
afraid  to  have  it  in  my  sleep,  but  I am 
so  sad,  so  very,  very  sad.” 

The  old  man  blessed  him,  the  child 
in  tears  replied,  “Good  night,”  and  Kit 
was  again  alone. 

He  hurried  back,  moved  by  what  he 
had  heard,  though  more  by  the  child’s 
manner  than  by  anything  he  had  said, 
as  his  meaning  was  hidden  from  him. 
They  took  the  path  indicated  by  the 
sexton,  and  soon  arrived  before  the  par- 
sonage wall.  Turning  round  to  look 
about  them  when  they  had  got  thus  far, 


they  saw,  among  some  ruined  buildings 
at  a distance,  one  single  solitary  light. 

It  shone  from  what  appeared  to  be 
an  old  oriel  window,  and,  being  sur- 
rounded by  the  deep  shadows  of  over- 
hanging walls,  sparkled  like  a star. 
Bright  and  glimmering  as  the  stars  above 
their  heads,  lonely  and  motionless  as 
they,  it  seemed  to  claim  some  kindred 
with  the  eternal  lamps  of  heaven,  and 
to  burn  in  fellowship  with  them. 

“ What  light  is  that ! ” said  the  young- 
er brother. 

“ It  is  surely,”  said  Mr.  Garland, 
“ in  the  ruin  where  they  live.  I see  no 
other  ruin  hereabouts.” 

“They  cannot,”  returned  the  broth- 
er, hastily,  “ be  waking  at  this  late 
hour  — ” 

Kit  interposed  directly,  and  begged 
that,  while  they  rang  and  waited  at  the 
gate,  they  would  let  him  make  his  way 
to  where  this  light  was  shining,  and  try 
to  ascertain  if  any  people  were  about. 
Obtaining  the  permission  he  desired,  he 
darted  off  with  breathless  eagerness, 
and,  still  carrying  the  birdcage  in  his 
hand,  made  straight  towards  the  spot. 

It  was  not  easy  to  hold  that  pace 
among  the  graves,  and  at  another  time 
he  might  have  gone  more  slowly,  or 
round  by  the  path.  Unmindful  of  all 
obstacles,  however,  he  pressed  forward 
without  slackening  his  speed,  and  soon 
arrived  within  a few  yards  of  the  win- 
dow. 

He  approached  as  softly  as  he  could, 
and  advancing  so  near  the  wall  as  to 
brush  the  whitened  ivy  with  his  dress, 
listened.  There  was  no  sound  inside. 
The  church  itself  was  not  more  quiet. 
Touching  the  glass  with  his  cheek,  he 
listened  again.  No.  And  yet  there 
was  such  a silence  all  around  that  he 
felt  sure  he  could  have  heard  even  the 
breathing  of  a sleeper,  if  there  had  been 
one  there. 

A strange  circumstance,  a light  in 
such  a place  at  that  time  of  night,  with 
no  one  near  it. 

A curtain  was  drawn  across  the  lower 
portion  of  the  window,  and  he  could  not 
see  into  the  room.  But  there  was  no 
shadow  thrown  upon  it  from  within. 
To  have  gained  a footing  on  the  wall 
and  tried  to  look  in  from  above  would 


20 


306 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


have  been  attended  with  some  dan- 
ger, — certainly  with  some  noise,  and 
the  chance  of  terrifying  the  child,  if 
that  really  were  her  habitation.  Again 
and  again  he  listened  ; again  and  again 
the  same  wearisome  blank. 

Leaving  the  spot  with  slow  and  cau- 
tious steps,  and  skirting  the  ruin  for  a 
few  paces,  he  came  at  length  to  a door. 
He  knocked.  No  answer.  But  there 
was  a curious  noise  inside.  It  was  dif- 
ficult to  determine  what  it  was.  It 
bore  a resemblance  to  the  low  moaning 
of  one  in  pain,  but  it  was  not  that, 
being  far  too  regular  and  constant. 
Now  it  seemed  a kind  of  song,  novv  a 
wail,  — seemed,  that  is,  to  his  changing 
fancy,  for  the  sound  itself  was  never 
changed  or  checked.  It  was  unlike 
anything  he  had  ever  heard  ; and  in  its 
tone  there  was  something  fearful,  chill- 
ing, and  unearthly. 

The  listener’s  blood  ran  colder  now 
than  ever  it  had  done  in  frost  and  snow, 
but  he  knocked  again.  There  was  no 
answer,  and  the  sound  went  on  without 
any  interruption.  He  laid  his  hand 
softly  upon  the  latch,  and  put  his  knee 
against  the  door.  It  was  secured  on 
the  inside,  but  yielded  to  the  pressure, 
and  turned  upon  its  hinges.  He  saw 
the  glimmering  of  a fire  upon  the  old 
walls,  and  entered. 


CHAPTER  LXXI. 

The  dull,  red  glow  of  a wood  fire  — 
for  no  lamp  or  candle  burnt  within  the 
room  — showed  him  a figure,  seated  on 
the  hearth  with  its  back  towards  him, 
bending  over  the  fitful  light.  The  atti- 
tude was  that  of  one  who  sought  the 
heat.  It  was,  and  yet  was  not.  The 
stooping  posture  and  the  cowering  form 
were  there,  but  no  hands  were  stretched 
out  to  meet  the  grateful  warmth,  no 
shrug  or  shiver  compared  its  luxury 
with  the  piercing  cold  outside.  With 
limbs  huddled  together,  head  bowed 
down,  arms  crossed  upon  the  breast, 
and  fingers  tightly  clenched,  it  rocked 
to  and  fro  upon  its  seat  without  a mo- 
ment’s pause,  accompanying  the  action 
with  the  mournful  sound  he  had  heard. 


The  heavy  door  had  closed  behind 
him  on  his  entrance,  with  a crash  that 
made  him  start.  The  figure  neither 
spoke,  nor  turned  to  look,  nor  gave  in 
any  other  way  the  faintest  sign  of  hav- 
ing heard  the  noise.  The  form  was 
that  of  an  old  man,  his  white  head  akin 
in  color  to  the  mouldering  embers  upon 
which  he  gazed.  Pie,  and  the  failing 
light  and  dying  fire,  the  time-worn 
room,  the  solitude,  the  wasted  life  and 
gloom,  were  all  in  fellowship.  Ashes, 
and  dust,  and  ruin  ! 

Kit  tried  to  spehk,  and  did  pronounce 
some  words,  though  what  they  were  he 
scarcely  knew.  Still  the  same  terrible 
low  cry  went  on,  — still  the  same  rock- 
ing in  the  chair,  — the  same  stricken 
figure  was  there,  unchanged  and  heed- 
less of  his  presence. 

He  had  his  hand  upon  the  latch, 
when  something  in  the  form  — distinctly 
seen  as  one  log  broke  and  fell,  and,  as 
it  fell,  blazed  up  — arrested  it.  He  re- 
turned to  where  he  had  stood  before  — 
advanced  a pace  — another  — another 
still.  Another,  and  he  saw  the  face. 
Yes  ! Changed  as  it  was,  he  knew  it 
well. 

“ Master ! ” he  cried,  stooping  on  one 
knee  and  catching  at  his  hand.  “ Dear 
master.  Speak  to  me  ! ” 

The  old  man  turned  slowly  towards 
him,  and  muttered  in  a hollow  voice,  — 
“This  is  another! — How  many  of 
these  spirits  there  have  been  to-night ! ” 
“ No  spirit,  master.  No  one  but 
your  old  servant.  You  know  me  now, 
I am  sure  ? Miss  Nell  — where  is  she 
— where  is  she  ! ” 

“ They  all  say  that ! ” cried  the  old 
man.  “ They  all  ask  the  same  ques- 
tion. A spirit ! ” 

“Where  is  she?”  demanded  Kit. 
“ O,  tell  me  but  that,  — but  that,  dear 
master ! ” 

“ She  is  asleep  — yonder  — in  there.” 
“Thank  God!” 

“ Ay  ! Thank  God  ! ” returned  the 
old  man.  “ I have  prayed  to  him, 
many  and  many  and  many  a livelong 
night,  when  she  has  been  asleep,  he 
knows.  Hark  ! Did  she  call ! ” 

“ I heard  no  voice.” 

“You  did.  You  hear  her  now.  Do 
you  tell  me  that  you  don’t  hear  that  ? ” 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


307 


He  started  up,  and  listened  again. 

“ Nor  that?”  he  cried,  with  a trium- 
phant smile.  “ Can  anybody  know 
that  voice  so  well  as  I ! Hush  ! hush  ! ” 
Motioning  to  him  to  be  silent,  he 
stole  away  into  another  chamber.  After 
a short  absence  (during  which  he  could 
be  heard  to  speak  in  a softened  soothing 
tone)  he  returned,  bearing  in  his  hand 
a lamp. 

“She  is  still  asleep,”  he  whispered. 
“ You  were  right.  She  did  not  call,  — 
unless  she  did  so  in  her  slumber.  She 
has  called  to  me  in  her  sleep  before 
now,  sir ; as  I have  sat  by,  watching,  I 
have  seen  her  lips  move,  and  have 
known,  though  no  sound  came  from 
them,  that  she  spoke  of  me.  I feared 
the  light  might  dazzle  her  eyes  and 
wake  her,  so  I brought  it  here.” 

He  spoke  rather  to  himself  than  to 
the  visitor,  but  when  he  had  put  the 
lamp  upon  the  table,  he  took  it  up,  as 
if  impelled  by  some  momentary  recol- 
lection or  curiosity,  and  held  it  near  his 
face.  Then,  as  if  forgetting  his  motive 
in  the  very  action,  he  turned  away  and 
put  it  down  again. 

“ She  is  sleeping  soundly,”  he  said  ; 
“but  no  wonder.  Angel  hands  have 
strewn  the  ground  deep  with  snow,  that 
the  lightest  footstep  may  be  lighter  yet ; 
and  the  very  birds  are  dead,  that  they 
may  not  wake  her.  She  used  to  feed 
them,  sir.  Though  never  so  cold  and 
hungry,  the  timid  things  would  fly 
from  us.  They  never  flew  from  her  ! ” 
Again  he  stopped  to  listen,  and, 
scarcely  drawing  breath,  listened  for  a 
long,  long  time.  That  fancy  past,  he 
opened  an  old  chest,  took  out  some 
clothes  as  fondly  as  if  they  had  been 
living  things,  and  began  to  smooth  and 
brush  them  with  his  hand. 

“ Why  dost  thou  lie  so  idle  there, 
dear  Nell,”  he  murmured,  “ when  there 
are  bright  red  berries  out  of  doors  wait- 
ing for  thee  to  pluck  them  ! Why  dost 
thou  lie  so  idle  there,  when  thy  little 
friends  come  creeping  to  the  door,  cry- 
ing, ‘Where  is  Nell,  — sweet  Nell?’ 
and  sob,  and  weep,  because  they  do 
not  see  thee.  She  was  always  gentle 
with  children.  The  wildest  would  do 
her  bidding.  She  had  a tender  way 
with  them,  indeed  she  had  ! ” 


Kit  had  no  power  to  speak.  His 
eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

“Her  little  homely  dress, — her  fa- 
vorite ! ” cried  the  old  man,  pressing  it 
to  his  breast,  and  patting  it  with  his 
shrivelled  hand.  “ She  will  miss  it 

when  she  wakes.  They  have  hid  it 
here  in  sport,  but  she  shall  have  it,  — 
she  shall  have  it.  I would  not  vex  my 
darling,  for  the  wide  world’s  riches. 
See  here  — these  shoes  — how  worn 
they  are  — she  kept  them  to  remind 
her  of  our  last  long  journey.  You  see 
where  the  little  feet  went  bare  upon 
the  ground.  They  told  me,  afterwards, 
that  the  stones  had  cut  and  bruised 
them.  She  never  told  me  that.  No, 
no,  God  bless  her ! and  I have  remem- 
bered since  she  walked  behind  me,  sir, 
that  I might  not  see  how  lame  she  was ; 
but  yet  she  had  my  hand  in  hers,  and 
seemed  to  lead  me  still.” 

He  pressed  them  to  his  lips,  and„ 
having  carefully  put  them  back  again, 
went  on  communing  with  himself,  — 
looking  wistfully  from  time  to  tim$ 
towards  the  chamber  he  had  lately 
visited. 

“ She  was  not  wont  to  be  a lie-abed ; 
but  she  was  well  then.  We  must  hav^ 
patience.  When  she  is  well  again,  sh$ 
will  rise  early,  as  she  used  to  do,  and 
ramble  abroad  in  the  healthy  morning 
time.  I often  tried  to  track  the  way 
she  had  gone,  but  her  small  footstep 
left  no  print  upon  the  dewy  ground,  to 
guide  me.  Who  is  that?  Shut  the  door. 
Quick  ! — Have  we  not  enough  to  do 
to  drive  away  that  marble  cold,  anc* 
keep  her  warm  ! ” 

The  door  was  indeed  opened,  for  tho 
entrance  of  Mr.  Garland  and  his  friend, 
accompanied  by  two  other  persons. 
These  were  the  schoolmaster  and  the 
bachelor.  The  former  held  a light  in 
his  hand.  He  had,  it  seemed,  but  gone 
to  his  own  cottage  to  replenish  the  ex- 
hausted lamp,  at  the  moment  when  Kit 
came  up  and  found  the  old  man  alone. 

He  softened  again  at  sight  of  these 
two  friends,  and,  laying  aside  the  angry 
manner — if  to  anything  so  feeble  and 
so  sad  the  term  can  be  applied  — in 
which  he  had  spoken  when  the  door 
opened,  resumed  his  former  seat,  and 
subsided,  by  little  and  little,  into  the 


3°8 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


old  action,  and  the  old,  dull,  wandering 
sound. 

Of  the  strangers  he  took  no  heed 
whatever.  He  had  seen  them,  but  ap- 
peared quite  incapable  of  interest  or 
curiosity.  The  younger  brother  stood 
apart.  The  bachelor  drew  a chair  to- 
wards the  old  man,  and  sat  down  close 
beside  him.  After  a long  silence,  he 
ventured  to  speak. 

“ Another  night,  and  not  in  bed  ! ” 
he  said,  softly  ; “ I hoped  you  would  be 
more  mindful  of  your  promise  to  me. 
Why  do  you  not  take  some  rest?  ” 

“ Sleep  has  left  me,”  returned  the 
old  man.  “ It  is  all  with  her  ! ” 

“ It  would  pain  her  very  much  to 
know  that  you  were  watching  thus,” 
said  the  bachelor.  “ You  would  not 
give  her  pain  ? ” 

“ I am  not  so  sure  of  that,  if  it  would 
only  rouse  her.  She  has  slept  so  very 
long.  And  yet  I am  rash  to  say  so.  It 
is  a good  and  happy  sleep  — eh  ? ” 

“ Indeed  it  is,”  returned  the  bachelor. 
“ Indeed,  indeed  it  is  ! ” 

“ That ’s  well ! — and  the  waking,” 
faltered  the  old  man. 

“ Happy  too.  Happier  than  tongue 
can  tell,  or  heart  of  man  conceive.” 
They  watched  him  as  he  rose  and 
stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  other  chamber 
where  the  lamp  had  been  replaced. 
They  listened  as  he  spoke  again  within 
its  silent  walls.  They  looked  into  the 
faces  of  each  other,  and  no  man’s  cheek 
was  free  from  tears.  He  came  back, 
whispering  that  she  was  still  asleep,  but 
that  he  thought  she  had  moved.  It  was 
her  hand,  he  said  — a little,  a very,  very 
little  — but  he  was  pretty  sure  she  had 
moved  it  — perhaps  in  seeking  his.  He 
had  known  her  do  that  before  now, 
though  in  the  deepest  sleep  the  while. 
And  when  he  had  said  this,  he  dropped 
into  his  chair  again,  and,  clasping  his 
hands  above  his  head,  uttered  a cry 
never  to  be  forgotten. 

The  poor  schoolmaster  motioned  to 
the  bachelor  that  he  would  come  on  the 
other  side,  and  speak  to  him.  They 
gently  unlocked  his  fingers,  which  he 
had  twisted  in  his  gray  hair,  and  pressed 
them  in  their  own. 

“ He  will  hear  me,”  said  the  school- 
master, “ I am  sure.  He  will  hear 


either  me  or  you  if  we  beseech  him. 
She  would,  at  all  times.” 

“ I will  hear  any  voice  she  liked  to 
hear,”  cried  the  old  man.  “ I love  all 
she  loved  ! ” 

“ I know  you  do,”  returned  the 
schoolmaster.  “I  am  certain  of  it. 
Think  of  her ; think  of  all  the  sorrows 
and  afflictions  you  have  shared  togeth- 
er ; of  all  the  trials,  and  all  the  peace- 
ful pleasures,  you  have  jointly  known.” 
“ I do.  I do.  I think  of  nothing 
else.” 

“ I would  have  you  think  of  nothing 
else  to-night,  — of  nothing  but  those 
things  which  will  soften  your  heart, 
dear  friend,  and  open  it  to  old  affections 
and  old  times.  It  is  so  that  she  would 
speak  to  you  herself,  and  in  her  name 
it  is  that  I speak  now.” 

“You  do  well  to  speak  softly,”  said 
the  old  man.  “We  will  not  wake  her. 
I should  be  glad  to  see  her  eyes  again, 
and  to  see  her  smile.  There  is  a smile 
upon  her  young  face  now,  but  it  is  fixed 
and  changeless.  I would  have  it  come 
and  go.  That  shall  be  in  Heaven’s 
good  time.  We  will  not  wake  her.” 

“ Let  us  not  talk  of  her  in  her  sleep, 
but  as  she  used  to  be  when  you  were 
journeying  together,  far  away,  — as  she 
was  at  home,  in  the  old  house  from 
which  you  fled  together,  — as  she  was 
in  the  old  cheerful  time,”  said  the 
schoolmaster. 

“ She  was  always  cheerful,  — very 
cheerful,”  cried  the  old  man,  looking 
steadfastly  at  him.  “ There  was  ever 
something  mild  and  quiet  about  her,  I 
remember,  from  the  first ; but  she  was 
of  a happy  nature.” 

“ We  have  heard  you  say,”  pursued 
the  schoolmaster,  “ that  in  this,  and  in 
all  goodness,  she  was  like  her  mother. 
You  can  think  of  and  remember  her?” 
He  maintained  his  steadfast  look, 
but  gave  no  answer. 

“ Or  even  one  before  her,”  said  the 
bachelor.  “ It  is  many  years  ago,  and 
affliction  makes  the  time  longer,  but 
you  have  not  forgotten  her  whose  death 
contributed  to  make  this  child  so  dear 
to  you,  even  before  you  knew  her  worth 
or  could  read  her  heart  ? Say,  that  you 
could  carry  back  your  thoughts  to  very 
distant  days,  — to  the  time  of  your  early 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


309 


life,  '—when,  unlike  this  fair  flower,  you 
did  not  pass  your  youth  alone.  Say, 
that  you  could  remember,  long  ago, 
another  child  who  loved  you  dearly, 
you  being  but  a child  yourself.  Say, 
that  you  had  a brother,  long  forgotten, 
long  unseen,  long  separated  from  you, 
who  now,  at  last,  in  your  utmost  need, 
came  back  to  comfort  and  console 
you  — ” 

“ To  be  to  you  what  you  were  once  to 
him,”  cried  the  younger,  falling  on  his 
knee  before  him  ; “to  repay  your  old 
affection,  brother  dear,  by  constant  care, 
solicitude,  and  love ; to  be  at  your  right 
hand,  what  he  has  never  ceased  to  be 
when  oceans  rolled  between  us ; to  call, 
to  witness  his  unchanging  truth  and 
mindfulness  of  by-gone  days,  whole 
years  of  desolation.  Give  me  but  one 
word  of  recognition,  brother,  and  nev- 
er, no  never,  in  the  brightest  moment 
of  our  youngest  days,  when,  poor  silly 
boys,  we  thought  to  pass  our  lives  to- 
gether, have  we  been  half  as  dear  and 
precious  to  each  other  as  we  shall  be 
from  this  time  hence  ! ” 

The  old  man  looked  from  face  to  face, 
and  his  lips  moved  ; but  no  sound  came 
from  them  in  reply. 

“ If  we  were  knit  together  then,” 
pursued  the  younger  brother,  “ what 
will  be  the  bond  between  us  now  ! Our 
love  and  fellowship  began  in  childhood, 
when  life  was  all  before  us,  and  will  be 
resumed  when  we  have  proved  it,  and 
are  but  children  at  the  last.  As  many 
restless  spirits,  who  have  hunted  for- 
tune, fame,  or  pleasure  through  the 
world,  retire  in  their  decline  to  where 
they  first  drew  breath,  vainly  seeking  to 
be  children  once  again  before  they  die, 
so  we,  less  fortunate  than  they  in  early 
life,  but  happier  in  its  closing  scenes, 
will  set  up  our  rest  again  amon^  our 
boyish  haunts,  and  going  home  with  no 
hope  realized,  that  had  its  growth  in 
manhood,  — carrying  back  nothing  that 
we  brought  away,  but  our  old  yearnings 
to  each  other,  — saving  no  fragment  from 
the  wreck  of  life,  but  that  which  first 
endeared  it,  — may  be,  indeed,  but  chil- 
dren as  at  first.  And  even,”  he  added 
in  an  altered  voice,  — “ even  if  what  I 
dread  to  name  has  come  to  pass,  — even 
if  that  be  so,  or  is  to  be  (which  Heaven 


forbid  and  spare  us  ! ) — still,  dear 
brother,  we  are  not  apart,  and  have  that 
comfort  in  our  great  affliction.” 

By  little  and  little,  the  old  man  had 
drawn  back  towards  the  inner  chamber, 
while  these  words  were  spoken.  He 
pointed  there,  as  he  replied  with  trem- 
bling lips. 

“You  plot  among  you  to  wean  my 
heart  from  her.  You  never  will  do 
that,  — never  while  I have  life.  I have 
no  relative  or  friend  but  her,  — I never 
had,  — I never  will  have.  She  is  all  in 
all  to  me.  It  is  too  late  to  part  us  now.” 

Waving  them  off  with  his  hand,  and 
calling  softly  to  her  as  he  went,  he  stole 
into  the  room.  They  who  were  left  be- 
hind drew  close  together,  and  after  a 
few  whispered  words,  not  unbroken 
by  emotion  or  easily  uttered,  followed 
him.  They  moved  so  gently  that  their 
footsteps  made  no  noise ; but  there 
were  sobs  from  among  the  group,  and 
sounds  of  grief  and  mourning. 

For  she  was  dead.  There,  upon  her 
little  bed,  she  lay  at  rest.  The  solemn 
stillness  was  no  marvel  now. 

She  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  beautiful 
and  calm,  so  free  from  trace  of  pain,  so 
fair  to  look  upon.  She  seemed  a crea- 
ture fresh  from  the  hand  of  God,  and 
waiting  for  the  breath  of  life  ; not  one 
who  had  lived  and  suffered  death. 

Her  couch  was  dressed  with  here  and 
there,  some  winter  berries  and  green 
leaves,  gathered  in  a spot  she  had  been 
used  to  favor.  “ When  I die,  put  near 
me  something  that  has  loved  the  light, 
and  had  the  sky  above  it  always.” 
Those  were  her  words. 

She  was  dead.  Dear,  gentle,  pa- 
tient, noble  Nell  was  dead.  Her  little 
bird  — a poor  slight  thing  the  pressure 
of  a finger  would  have  crushed  — was 
stirring  nimbly  in  its  cage ; and  the 
strong  heart  of  its  child-mistress  was 
mute  and  motionless  forever. 

Where  were  the  traces  of  her  early 
cares,  her  sufferings,  and  fatigues?  All 
gone.  Sorrow  was  dead  indeed  in  her, 
but  peace  and  perfect  happiness  were 
born  ; imaged  in  her  tranquil  beauty 
and  profound  repose. 

And  still  her  former  self  lay  there, 
unaltered  in  this  change.  Yes.  The 
old  fireside  had  smiled  upon  that  same 


3io 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


sweet  face  ; it  had  passed,  like  a dream, 
through  haunts  of  misery  and  care  ; at 
the  door  of  the  poor  schoolmaster  on 
the  summer  evening,  before  the  furnace 
fire  upon  the  cold  wet  night,  at  the  still 
bedside  of  the  dying  boy,  there  had 
been  the  same  mild  lovely  look.  So 
shall  we  know  the  angels  in  thefr  maj- 
esty, after  death. 

The  old  man  held  one  languid  arm 
in  his,  and  had  the  small  hand  tight 
folded  to  his  breast,  for  warmth.  It 
was  the  hand  she  had  stretched  out  to 
him  with  her  last  smile,  — the  hand 
that  had  led  him  on,  through  all  their 
wanderings.  Ever  and  anon  he  pressed 
it  to  his  lips  ; then  hugged  it  to  his  breast 
again,  murmuring  that  it  was  warmer 
now ; and,  as  he  said  it,  he  looked,  in 
agony,  to  those  who  stood  around,  as  if 
imploring  them  to  help  her. 

She  was  dead,  and  past  all  help,  or 
need  of  it.  The  ancient  rooms  she  had 
seemed  to  fill  with  life,  even  while  her 
own  was  waning  fast,  — the  garden  she 
had  tended,  — the  eyes  she  had  glad- 
dened, — the  noiseless  haunts  of  many 
a thoughtful  hour,  — the  paths  she  had 
trodden  as  it  were  but  yesterday, — could 
know  her  nevermore. 

“It  is  not,”  said  the  schoolmaster, 
as  he  bent  down  to  kiss  her  on  the 
cheek,  and  gave  his  tears  free  vent,  — 
“ it  is  not  on  earth  that  Heaven’s  justice 
ends.  Think  what  earth  is,  compared 
with  the  world  to  which  her  young 
spirit  has  winged  its  early  flight ; and 
say,  if  one  deliberate  wish  expressed 
in  solemn  terms  above  this  bed  could 
call  her  back  to  life,  which  of  us  would 
utter  it ! ” 


CHAPTER  LXXII. 

When  morning  came,  and  they  could 
speak  more  calmly  on  the  subject  of 
their  grief,  they  heard  how  her  life  had 
closed. 

She  had  been  dead  two  days.  They 
were  all  about  her  at  the  tipie,  knowing 
that  the  end  was  drawing  on.  She  died 
soon  after  daybreak.  They  had  read 
and  talked  to  her  in  the  earlier  portion 
of  the  night,  but  as  the  hours  crept  on, 
she  sunk  to  sleep.  They  could  tell  by 


what  she  faintly  uttered  in  her  dreams, 
that  they  were  of  her  journeyings  with 
the  old  man  ; they  were  of  no  painful 
scenes,  but  of  people  who  had  helped 
and  used  them  kindly,  for  she  often 
said,  “ God  bless  you  ! ” with  great  fer- 
vor. Waking,  she  never  wandered  in 
her  mind  but  once,  and  that  was  of 
beautiful  music  which  she  said  was  in 
the  air.  God  knows.  It  may  have 
been. 

Opening  her  eyes  at  last,  from  a very 
quiet  sleep,  she  begged  that  they  would 
kiss  her  once  again.  That  done,  she 
turned  to  the  old  man  with  a lovely 
smile  upon  her  face,  — such,  they  said, 
as  they  had  never  seen  and  never  could 
forget,  — and  clung  with  both  her  arms 
about  his  neck.  They  did  not  know 
that  she  was  dead,  at  first. 

She  had  spoken  very  often  of  the  two 
sisters,  who,  she  said,  w'ere  like  dear 
friends  to  her.  She  washed  they  could 
be  told  how  much  she  thought  about 
them,  and  how  she  had  watched  them 
as  they  walked  together,  by  the  river- 
side at  night.  She  would  like  to  see 
poor  Kit,  she  had  often  said  of  late. 
She  wished  there  was  somebody  to  take 
her  love  to  Kit.  And,  even  then,  she 
never  thought  or  spoke  about  him,  but 
with  something  of  her  old,  clear,  merry 
laugh. 

For  the  rest,  she  had  never  murmured 
or  complained  ; but,  with  a quiet  mind, 
and  manner  quite  unaltered, — save  that 
she  every  day  became  more  earnest  and 
more  grateful  to  them,  — faded  like  the 
light  upon  a summer’s  evening. 

The  child  who  had  been  her  little 
friend  came  there,  almost  as  soon  as  it 
was  day,  with  an  offering  of  dried  flow- 
ers which  he  begged  them  to  lay  upon 
her  breast.  It  was  he  who  had  come  to 
the  window  overnight  and  spoken  to  the 
sexton,  and  they  saw  in  the  snow  traces 
of  small  feet,  where  he  had  been  linger- 
ing near  the  room  in  which  she  lay,  be- 
fore he  went  to  bed.  He  had  a fancy, 
it  seemed,  that  they  had  left  her  there 
alone,  and  could  not  bear  the  thought. 

He  told  them  of  his  dream  again,  and 
that  it  was  of  her  being  restored  to  them 
just  as  she  used  to  be.  He  begged 
hard  to  see  her,  saying  that  he  would  be 
very  quiet,  and  that  they  need  not  fear 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP . 


his  being  alarmed,  for  he  had  sat  alone 
by  his  young  brother  all  day  long  when 
he  was  dead,  and  had  felt  glad  to  be  so 
near  him.  They  let  him  have  his  wish  ; 
and  indeed  he  kept  his  word,  and  was, 
in  his  childish  way,  a lesson  to  them 
all. 

Up  to  that  time,  the  old  man  had  not 
spoken  once  — except  to  her  — or  stirred 
from  the  bedside.  But  when  he  saw 
her  little  favorite,  he  was  moved  as  they 
had  not  seen  him  yet,  and  made  as 
though  he  would  have  him  come  nearer. 
Then,  pointing  to  the  bed,  he  burst  into 
tears  for  the  first  time,  and  they  who 
stood  by,  knowing  that  the  sight  of  this 
child  had  done  him  good,  left  them 
alone  together. 

Soothing  him  with  his  artless  talk  of 
her,  the  child  persuaded  him  to  take 
some  rest,  to  walk  abroad,  to  do  almost 
as  he  desired  him.  And  when  the  day 
came  on,  which  must  remove  her  in  her 
earthly  shape  from  earthly  eyes  for- 
ever, he  led  him  away,  that  he  might 
not  know  when  she  was  taken  from 
him. 

They  were  to  gather  fresh  leaves  and 
berries  for  her  bed.  It  was  Sunday,  — 
a bright,  clear,  wintry  afternoon,  — and 
as  they  traversed  the  village  street,  those 
who  were  walking  in  their  path  drew' 
back  to  make  way  for  them,  and  gave 
them  a softened  greeting.  Some  shook 
the  old  man  kindly  by  the  hand,  some 
stood  uncovered  while  he  tottered  by, 
and  many  cried,  “ God  help  him  ! ” as 
he  passed  along. 

“ Neighbor  ! ” said  the  old  man, 
stopping  at  the  cottage  where  his  young 
guide’s  mother  dwelt,  “how  is  it  that 
the  folks  are  nearly  all  in  black  to- 
day ? I have  seen  a mourning  ribbon 
or  a piece  of  crape  on  almost  every 
one.” 

She  could  not  tell,  the  woman  said. 

“ Why,  you  yourself,  you  wear  the 
color  too  ! ” he  said.  “ Windows  are 
closed  that  never  used  to  be  by  day. 
What  does  this  mean?  ” 

Again  the  woman  said  she  could  not 
tell. 

“We  must  go  back,”  said  the  old 
man,  hurriedly.  “We  must  see  what 
this  is.” 

“ No,  no,”  cried  the  child,  detaining 


him.  “ Remember  what  you  promised. 
Our  way  is  to  the  old  green  lane,  where 
she  and  I so  often  were,  and  where  you 
found  us,  more  than  once,  making  those 
garlands  for  her  garden.  Do  not  turn 
back  ! ” 

“ Where  is  she  now?”  said  the  old 
man.  “ Tell  me  that.” 

“Do  you  not  know?”  returned  the 
child.  “ Did  we  not  leave  her,  but  just 
now?  ” 

“True.  True.  It  was  her  we  left 
— was  it ! ” 

He  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  brow, 
looked  vacantly  round,  and  as  if  im- 
pelled by  a sudden  thought,  crossed  the 
road,  and  entered  the  sexton’s  house. 
He  and  his  deaf  assistant  were  sitting 
before  the  fire.  Both  rose  up,  on  see- 
ing who  it  was. 

The  child  made  a hasty  sign  to  them 
with  his  hand.  It  was  the  action  of  an 
instant,  but  that  and  the  old  man’s  look 
were  quite  enough. 

“ Do  you  — do  you  bury  any  one  to- 
day ? ” he  said,  eagerly. 

“ No,  no ! Who  should  we  bury, 
sir?  ” returned  the  sexton. 

“ Ay,  who  indeed  ! I say  with  you, 
who  indeed  ?” 

“ It  is  a holiday  with  us,  good  sir?  ” 
returned  the  sexton,  mildly.  “We  have 
no  work  to  do  to-day.” 

“ Why,  then,  I ’ll  go  where  you  will,” 
said  the  old  man,  turning  to  the  child. 
“You’re  sure  of  what  you  tell  me? 
You  would  not  deceive  me  ? I am 
changed,  even  in  the  little  time  since 
you  last  saw  me.” 

“ Go  thy  ways  with  him,  sir,”  cried 
the  sexton,  “ and  Heaven  be  with  ye 
both  ! ” 

“ I am  quite  ready,”  said  the  old 
man,  meekly.  “ Come,  boy,  come — ” 
and  so  submitted  to  be  led  away. 

And  now  the  bell  — the  bell  she  had 
so  often  heard,  by  night  and  day,  and 
listened  to  with  solemn  pleasure  almost 
as  a living  voice  — rung  its  remorseless 
toll  for  her,  so  young,  so  beautiful,  so 
good.  Decrepit  age  and  vigorous  life 
and  blooming  youth  and  helpless  in- 
fancy poured  forth — on  crutches,  in 
the  pride  of  strength  and  health,  in  the 
full  blush  of  promise,  in  the  mere  dawn 
of  life  — to  gather  round  her  tomb. 


312 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


Old  men  were  there,  whose  eyes  were 
dim  and  senses  failing,  — grandmothers, 
who  might  have  died  ten  years  ago,  and 
still  been  old,  — the  deaf,  the  blind, 
the  lame,  the  palsied,  the  living  dead 
in  many  shapes  and  forms,  to  see  the 
closing  of  that  early  grave.  What  was 
the  death  it  would  shut  in,  to  that 
which  still  could  crawl  and  creep  above 
it ! 

Along  the  crowded  path  they  bore 
her  now,  pure  as  the  newly  fallen  snow 
that  covered  it,  whose  day  on  earth 
had  been  as  fleeting.  Under  the  porch, 
where  she  had  sat  when  Heaven  in  its 
mercy  brought  her  to  that  peaceful  spot, 
she  passed  again  ; and  the  old  church 
received  her  in  its  quiet  shade. 

They  carried  her  to  one  old  nook 
where  she  had  many  and  many  a time 
sat  musing,  and  laid  their  burden  softly 
on  the  pavement.  The  light  streamed 
on  it  through  the  colored  window, — a 
window,  where  the  boughs  of  trees  were 
ever  rustling  in  the  summer,  and  where 
the  birds  sang  sweetly  all  day  long. 
With  every  breath  of  air  that  stirred 
among  those  branches  in  the  sunshine, 
some  trembling,  changing  light  would 
fall  upon  her  grave. 

Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to 
dust  ! Many  a young  hand  dropped  in 
its  iff  tie  wreath,  many  a stifled  sob  was 
heard.  Some  — and  they  were  not  a few 
— knelt  down.  All  were  sincere  and 
truthful  in  their  sorrow. 

The  service  done,  the  mourners  stood 
apart,  and  the  villagers  closed  round  to 
look  into  the  grave  before  the  pavement- 
stone  should  be  replaced.  One  called 
to  mind  how  he  had  seen  her  sitting  on 
that  very  spot,  and  how  her  book  had 
fallen  on  her  lap,  and  she  was  gazing 
with  a pensive  face  upon  the  sky. 
Another  told  how  he  had  wondered 
much  that  one  so  delicate  as  she  should 
be  so  bold ; how  she  had  never  feared 
to  enter  the  church  alone  at  night,  but 
had  loved  to  linger  there  when  all  was 
quiet,  and  even  to  climb  the  tower  stair, 
with  no  more  light  than  that  of  the 
moon  rays  stealing  through  the  loop- 
holes in  the  thick  old  wall.  A whisper 
went  about  among  the  oldest,  that  she 
had  seen  and  talked  with  angels  ; and 
when  they  called  to  mind  how  she 


had  looked  and  spoken,  and  her  early 
death,  some  thought  it  might  be  so, 
indeed.  Thus,  coming  to  the  grave  in 
little  knots,  and  glancing  down,  and 
giving  place  to  others,  and  falling  off  in 
whispering  groups  of  three  or  four,  the 
church  was  cleared,  in  time,  of  all  but 
the  sexton  and  the  mourning  friends. 

They  saw  the  vault  covered,  and  the 
stone  fixed  down.  Then,  when  the 
dusk  of  evening  had  come  on,  and  not 
a sound  disturbed  the  sacred  stillnes? 
of  the  place, — when  the  bright  moon 
poured  in  her  light  on  tomb  and  monm 
ment,  on  pillar,  wall,  and  arch,  and 
most  of  all  (it  seemed  to  them)  upon 
her  quiet  grave, — in  that  calm  time, 
when  outward  things  and  inwardthoughts 
teem  with  assurances  of  immortality,  and 
worldly  hopes  and  fears  are  humbled  in 
the  dust  before  them,  — then,  with  tran- 
quil and  submissive  hearts,  they  turned 
away,  and  left  the  child  with  God. 

Oh  ! it  is  hard  to  take  to  heart  the 
lesson  that  such  deaths  will  teach,  but 
let  no  man  reject  it,  for  it  is  one  that 
all  must  learn,  and  is  a mighty,  univer- 
sal Truth.  When  Death  strikes  down 
the  innocent  and  young,  for  every  fragile 
form  from  which  he  lets  the  panting 
spirit  free,  a hundred  virtues  rise,  in 
shapes  of  mercy,  charity,  and  love,  to 
walk  the  world  and  bless  it.  Of  every 
tear  that  sorrowing  mortals  shed  on 
such  green  graves,  some  good  is  born, 
some  gentler  nature  comes.  In  the 
Destroyer’s  steps  there  spring  up  bright 
creations  that  defy  his  power,  and  his 
dark  path  becomes  a way  of  light  to 
Heaven. 

It  was  late  when  the  old  man  came 
home.  The  boy  had  led  him  to  his  own 
dwelling,  under  some  pretence,  on  their 
way  back  ; and,  rendered  drowsy  by  his 
long  ramble  and  late  want  of  rest,  he 
had  sunk  into  a deep  sleep  by  the  fire- 
side. He  was  perfectly  exhausted,  and 
they  were  careful  not  to  rouse  him. 
The  slumber  held  him  a long  time,  and 
when  he  at  length  awoke  the  moon  was 
shining. 

The  younger  brother,  uneasy  at  his 
protracted  absence,  was  watching  at  the 
door  for  his  coming,  when  he  appeared 
in  the  pathway  with  his  little  guide. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


3i3 


He  advanced  to  meet  them,  and  ten- 
derly obliging  the  old  man  to  lean  upon 
his  arm,  conducted  him  with  slow  and 
trembling  steps  towards  the  house. 

He  repaired  to  her  chamber  straight. 
Not  finding  what  he  had  left  there,  he 
returned  with  distracted  looks  to  the 
room  in  which  they  were  assembled. 
From  that,  he  rushed  into  the  school- 
master’s cottage,  calling  her  name. 
They  followed  close  upon  him,  and 
when  he  had  vainly  searched  it,  brought 
him  home. 

With  such  persuasive  words  as  pity 
and  affection  could  suggest,  they  pre- 
vailed upon  him  to  sit  among  them  and 
hear  what  they  should  tell  him.  Then, 
endeavoring  by  every  little  artifice  to 
prepare  his  mind  for  what  must  come, 
and  dwelling  with  many  fervent  words 
upon  the  happy  lot  to  which  she  had 
been  removed,  they  told  him,  at  last,  the 
truth.  The  moment  it  had  passed  their 
lips,  he  fell  down  among  them  like  a 
murdered  man. 

For  many  hours  they  had  little  hope 
of  his  surviving  ; but  grief  is  strong, 
and  he  recovered. 

If  there  be  any  who  have  never  known 
the  blank  that  follows  death,  — the  weary 
void,  — the  sense  of  desolation  that  will 
come  upon  the  strongest  minds,  when 
something  familiar  and  beloved  is 
missed  at  every  turn,  — the  connection 
between  inanimate  and  senseless  things 
and  the  object  of  recollection,  when 
every  household  god  becomes  a monu- 
ment and  every  room  a grave,  — if  there 
be  any  who  have  not  known  this,  and 
proved  it  by  their  own  experience,  they 
can  never  faintly  guess,  how,  for  many 
days,  the  old  man  pined  and  moped 
away  the  time,  and  wandered  here  and 
there  as  seeking  something,  and  had  no 
comfort. 

Whatever  power  of  thought  or  mem- 
ory he  retained  was  all  bound  up  in  her. 
He  never  understood,  or  seemed  to 
care  to  understand,  about  his  brother. 
To  every  endearment  and  attention  he 
continued  listless.  If  they  spoke  to 
him  on  this  or  any  other  theme,  — save 
one, — he  would  hear  them  patiently  for  a 
while,  then  turn  away,  and  go  on  seek- 
ing ^ before. 

On  that  one  theme,  which  was  in  his 


and  all  their  minds,  it  was  impossible 
to  touch.  Dead  ! He  could  not  hear 
or  bear  the  word.  The  slightest  hint 
of  it  would  throw  him  into  a paroxysm, 
like  that  he  had  had  when  it  was  first 
spoken.  In  what  hope  he  lived,  no 
man  could  tell  ; but,  that  he  had  some 
hope  of  finding  her  again  — some  faint 
and  shadowy  hope,  deferred  from  day 
to  day,  and  making  him  from  day  to 
day  more  sick  and  sore  at  heart  — was 
plain  to  all. 

They  bethought  them  of  a removal 
from  the  scene  of  this  last  sorrow ; of 
trying  whether  change  of  place  would 
rouse  or  cheer  him.  His  brother  sought 
the  advice  of  those  who  were  accounted 
skilful  in  such  matters,  and  they  came 
and  saw'  him.  Some  of  the  number 
stayed  upon  the  spot,  conversed  with 
him  when  he  would  converse,  and 
watched  him  as  he  wandered  up  and 
down,  alone  and  silent.  Move  him 
where  they  might,  they  said,  he  would 
ever  seek  to  get  back  there.  His  mind 
would  run  upon  that  spot.  If  they  con- 
fined him  closely,  and  kept  a strict 
guard  upon  him,  they  might  hold  him 
prisoner,  but  if  he  could  by  any  means 
escape,  he  would  surely  wander  back  to 
that  place,  or  die  upon  the  road. 

The  boy  to  whom  he  had  submitted 
at  first  had  no  longer  any  influence 
with  him.  ^At  times  he  would  suffer^ 
the  child  w walk  by  his  side,  or  would 
even  take  such  notice  of  his  presence  as 
giving  him  his  hand,  or  would  stop  tC 
kiss  his  cheek  or  pat  him  on  the  head. 
At  other  times  he  would  entreat  him  — ■ 
not  unkindly  — to  be  gone,  and  would 
not  brook  him  near.  But,  whether 
alone,  or  with  this  pliant  friend,  or  with 
those  who  would  have  given  him,  at 
any  cost  or  sacrifice,  some  consolation 
or  some  peace  of  mind,  if  happily  the 
means  could  have  been  devised,  he 
was  at  all  times  the  same,. — with  no 
love  or  care  for  anything  in  life,  — a 
broken-hearted  man. 

At  length,  they  found,  one  day,  that 
he  had  risen  early,  and,  w'ith  his  knap 
sack  on  his  back,  his  staff  in  hand, 
her  own  straw  hat,  and  little  basket  full 
of  such  things  as  she  had  been  used  to 
carry,  was  gone.  As  they  wrere  making 
ready  to  pursue  him  far  and  wide,  a 


3*4 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


frightened  school-boy  came  who  had 
seen  him,  but  a moment  before,  sitting 
in  the  church — upon  her  grave,  he 
said. 

They  hastened  there,  and  going  soft- 
ly to  the  door,  espied  him  in  the  atti- 
tude of  one  who  waited  patiently. 
They  did  not  disturb  him  then,  but 
kept  a watch  upon  him  all  that  day. 
When  it  grew  quite  dark,  he  rose  and 
returned  home,  and  went  to  bed,  mur- 
muring to  himself,  “ She  will  come  to- 
morrow ! ” 

Upon  the  morrow  he  was  there  again 
from  sunrise  until  night ; and  still  at 
night  he  laid  him  down  to  rest,  and 
murmured,  “ She  will  come  to- 
morrow ! ” 

And  thenceforth,  every  day,  and  all 
day  long,  he  waited  at  her  grave,  for 
her.  How  many  pictures  of  new  jour- 
neys over  pleasant  country,  of  resting- 
places  under  the  free  broad  sky,  of  ram- 
bles in  the  fields  and  woods,  and  paths 
not  often  trodden,  — how  many  tones  of 
that  one  well-remembered  voice,  — how 
many  glimpses  of  the  form,  the  flutter- 
ing dress,  the  hair  that  waved  so  gayly 
in  the  wind,  — how  many  visions  of 
what  had  been,  and  what  he  hoped 
was  yet  to  be,  — rose  up  before  him, 
in  the  old,  dull,  silent  church ! He 
never  told  them  what  he  thought, 
or  where  he  went.  He  would  sit  with 
*them  at  night,  pondering  wfth  a secret 
satisfaction,  they  could  see,  upon  the 
flight  that  he  and  she  would  take  before 
night  came  again  ; and  still  they  would 
hear  him  whisper  in  his  prayers, 
“Lord!  Let  her  come  to-morrow!” 

The  last  time  was  on  a genial  day  in 
spring.  He  did  not  return  at  the  usual 
hour,  and  they  went  to  seek  him.  He 
was  lying  dead  upon  the  stone. 

They  laid  him  by  the  side  of  her 
whom  he  had  loved  so  well ; and  in 
the  church  where  they  had  often  prayed 
and  mused,  and  lingered  hand  in  hand, 
the  child  and  the  old  man  slept  to- 
gether. 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 

The  magic  reel,  which,  rolling  on 
before,  has  led  the  chronicler  thus  far, 


now  slackens  in  its  pace,  and  stops.  It 
lies  before  the  goal ; the  pursuit  is  at 
an  end. 

It  remains  but  to  dismiss  the  leaders 
of  the  little  crowd  who  have  borne  us 
company  upon  the  road,  and  so  to  close 
the  journey. 

Foremost  among  them,  smooth  Samp- 
son Brass  and  Sally,  arm-in-arm,  claim 
our  polite  attention. 

Mr.  Sampson,  then,  being  detained, 
as  already  has  been  shown,  by  the  jus- 
tice upon  whom  he  called,  and  being  so 
strongly  pressed  to  protract  his  stay 
that  he  could  by  no  means  refuse,  re- 
mained under  his  protection  for  a con- 
siderable time,  during  which  the  great 
attention  of  his  entertainer  kept  him  so 
extremely  close  that  he  was  quite  lost 
to  society,  and  never  even  went  abroad 
for  exercise  saving  into  a small  paved 
yard.  So  well,  indeed,  was  his  modest 
and  retiring  temper  understood  by  those 
with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  and  so  jeal- 
ous were  they  of  his  absence,  that  they 
required  a kind  of  friendly  bond  to  be 
entered  into  by  two  substantial  house- 
keepers, in  the  sum  of  fifteen  hundred 
pounds  apiece,  before  they  would  suffer 
him  to  quit  their  hospitable  roof, — 
doubting,  it  appeared,  that  he  would 
return,  if  once  let  loose,  on  any  other 
terms.  Mr.  Brass,  struck  with  the  hu- 
mor of  this  jest,  and  carrying  out  its 
spirit  to  the  utmost,  sought  from  his 
wide  connection  a pair  of  friends  whose 
joint  possessions  fell ‘some  half-pence 
short  of  fifteen  pence,  and  proffered 
them  as  bail,  — for  that  was  the  merry 
word  agreed  upon  on  both  sides.  These 
gentlemen  being  rejected  after  twenty- 
four  hours’  pleasantry,  Mr.  Brass  con- 
sented to  remain,  and  did  remain,  until 
a club  of  choice  spirits  called  a Grand 
Jury  (who  were  in  the  joke)  summoned 
him  to  a trial  before  twelve  other  wags, 
for  perjury  and  fraud,  who,  in  their  turn 
found  him  guilty  with  a most  facetious 
joy,  — nay,  the  very  populace  entered 
into  the  whim ; and  when  Mr.  Brass 
was  moving  in  a hackney-coach  towards 
the  building  where  these  wags  assem- 
bled, saluted  him  with  rotten  eggs  and 
carcasses  of  kittens,  and  feigned  to  wish 
to  tear  him  into  shreds,  which  greatly 
increased  the  comicality  of  the  thing. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


3i5 


and  made  him  relish  it  the  more,  no 
doubt. 

To  work  this  sportive  vein  still  fur- 
ther, Mr.  Brass,  by  his  counsel,  moved 
in  arrest  of  judgment  that  he  had  been 
led  to  criminate  himself  by  assurances 
of  safety  and  promises  of  pardon,  and 
claimed  the  leniency  which  the  law  ex- 
tends to  such  confiding  natures  as  are 
thus  deluded.  After  solemn  argument, 
this  point  (with  others  of  a technical 
nature,  whose  humorous  extravagance 
it  would  be  difficult  to  exaggerate)  was 
referred  to  the  judges  for  their  decision, 
Sampson  being  meantime  removed  to 
his  former  quarters.  Finally  some  of 
the  points  were  given  in  Sampson’s  fa- 
vor, and  some  against  him  ; and  the  upr 
shot  was,  that,  instead  of  being  desired 
to  travel  for  a time  in  foreign  parts,  he 
was  permitted  to  grace  the  mother  coun- 
try under  certain  insignificant  restric- 
tions. 

These  were,  that  he  should,  for  a 
term  of  years,  reside  in  a spacious  man- 
sion where  several  other  gentlemen 
were  lodged  and  boarded  at  the  public 
charge,  who  went  clad  in  a sober  uni- 
form of  gray  turned  up  with  yellow,  had 
their  hair  cut  extremely  short,  and 
chiefly  lived  on  gruel  and  light  soup. 
It  was  also  required  of  him  that  he 
should  partake  of  their  exercise  of  con- 
stantly ascending  an  endless  flight  of 
stairs  ; and,  lest  his  legs,  unused  to  such 
exertion,  should  be  weakened  by  it, 
that  he  should  wear  upon  one  ankle  an 
amulet  or  charm  of  iron.  These  condi- 
tions being  arranged,  he  was  removed 
one  evening  to  his  new  abode,  and  en- 
joyed, in  common  with  nine  other  gen- 
tlemen, and  two  ladies,  the  privilege  of 
being  taken  to  his  place  of  retirement 
in  one  of  Royalty’s  own  carriages. 

Over  and  above  these  trifling  penal- 
ties, his  name  was  erased  and  blotted 
out  from  the  roll  of  attorneys  ; which 
erasure  has  been  always  held  in  these 
latter  times  to  be  a great  degradation 
and  reproach,  and  to  imply  the  commis- 
sion of  some  amazing  villany,  — as  in- 
deed would  seem  to  be  the  case,  when 
so  many  worthless  names  remain  among 
its  better  records  unmolested. 

Of  Sally  Brass,  conflicting  rumors 
went  abroad.  Some  said  with  confi- 


dence that  she  had  gone  down  to  the 
docks  in  male  attire,  and  had  become  a 
female  sailor ; others  darkly  whispered 
that  she  had  enlisted  as  a private  in  the 
second  regiment  of  Foot  Guards,  and 
had  been  seen  in  uniform,  and  on  duty, 
to  wit,  leaning  on  her  musket  and  look- 
ing out  of  a sentry-box  in  St.  James’s 
Park,  one  evening.  There  were  many 
such  whispers  as  these  in  circulation  ; 
but  the  truth  appears  to  be,  that,  after  a 
lapse  of  some  five  years  (during  which 
there  is  no  direct  evidence  of  her  hav- 
ing been  seen  at  all),  two  wretched  peo- 
ple were  more  than  once  observed  to 
crawl  at  dusk  from  the  inmost  recesses 
of  St.  Giles’s,  and  to  take  their  way 
along  the  streets,  with  shuffling  steps 
and  cowering,  shivering  forms,  looking 
into  the  roads  and  kennels,  as  they  went, 
in  search  of  refuse  food  or  disregarded 
offal.  These  forms  were  never  beheld 
but  in  those  nights  of  cold  and  gloom, 
when  the  terrible  spectres  who  lie  at 
all  other  times  in  the  obscene  hiding- 
places  of  London,  in  archways,  dark 
vaults,  and  cellars,  venture  to  creep  into 
the  streets,  — the  embodied  spirits  of 
Disease,  and  Vice,  and  Famine.  It  was 
whispered  by  those  who  should  have 
known,  that  these  were  Sampson  and 
his  sister  Sally ; and  to  this  day,  it  is 
said,  they  sometimes  pass,  on  bad 
nights,  in  the  same  loathsome  guise, 
close  at  the  elbow  of  the  shrinking 
passenger. 

The  body  of  Quilp  being  found,  — 
though  not  until  some  days  had  elapsed, 
— an  inquest  was  held  on  it  near  the 
spot  where  it  had  been  washed  ashore. 
The  general  supposition  was  that  he 
had  committed  suicide,  and,  this  ap- 
pearing to  be  favored  by  all  the  circum- 
stances of  his  death,  the  verdict  w-as  to 
that  effect.  He  was  left  to  be  buried 
with  a stake  through  his  heart,  in  the 
centre  of  four  lonely  roads. 

It  ■was  rumored  afterwards  that  this 
horrible  and  barbarous  ceremony  had 
been  dispensed  with,  and  that  the  re- 
mains had  been  secretly  given  up  to 
Tom  Scot.  But  even  here,  opinion  was 
divided ; for  some  said  Tom  had  dug 
them  up  at  midnight,  and  carried  them 
to  a place  indicated  to  him  by  the 
widow.  It  is  probable  that  both  these 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


316 

stories  may  have  had  their  origin  in 
the  simple  fact  of  Tom’s  shedding  tears 
upon  the  inquest,  — which  he  certainly 
did,  extraordinary  as  it  may  appear. 
He  manifested,  besides,  a strong  de- 
sire to  assault  the  jury ; and,  being  re- 
strained and  conducted  out  of  court, 
darkened  its  only  window  by  standing 
on  his  head  upon  the  sill,  until  he  was 
dexterously  tilted  upon  his  feet  again 
by  a cautious  beadle. 

Being  cast  upon  the  w’orld  by  his 
master’s  death,  he  determined  to  go 
through  it  upon  his  head  and  hands, 
and  accordingly  began  to  tumble  for  his 
bread.  Finding,  however,  his  English 
birth  an  insurmountable  obstacle  to  his 
advancement  in  this  pursuit,  (notwith- 
standing that  his  art  was  in  high  repute 
and  favor,)  he  assumed  the  name  of  an 
Italian  image  lad,  with  whom  he  had 
become  acquainted ; and  afterwards 
tumbled  with  extraordinary  success, 
and  to  overflowing  audiences. 

Little  Mrs.  Quilp  never  quite  forgave 
herself  the  one  deceit  that  lay  so  heavy 
on  her  conscience,  and  never  spoke  or 
thought  of  it  but  with  bitter  tears.  Her 
husband  had  no  relations,  and  she  was 
rich.  He  had  made  no  will,  or  she 
would  probably  have  been  poor.  Hav- 
ing married  the  first  time  at  her  mother’s 
instigation,  she  consulted  in  her  second 
choice  nobody  but  herself.  It  fell  upon 
a smart  young  fellow  enough  ; and  as 
he  made  it  a preliminary  condition  that 
Mrs.  Jiniwin  should  be  thenceforth  an 
out-pensioner,  they  lived  together  after 
marriage  with  no  more  than  the  average 
amount  of  quarrelling,  and  led  a merry 
life  upon  the  dead  dwarf’s  money. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garland  and  Mr.  Abel 
went  out  as  usual  (except  that  there  was 
a change  in  their  household,  as  will  be 
seen  presently),  and  in  due  time  the 
latter  went  into  partnership  wnth  his 
friend  the  notary,  on  which  occasion 
there  was  a dinner,  and  a ball,  and 
great  extent  of  dissipation.  Unto  this 
ball  there  happened  to  be  invited  the 
most  bashful  young  lady  that  was  ever 
seen,  with  whom  Mr.  Abel  happened  to 
fall  in  love.  How  it  happened,  or  how 
they  found  it  out,  or  which  of  them 
first  communicated  the  discovery  to  the 
other,  nobody  knows.  But  certain  it 


is  that  in  course  of  time  they  were  mar- 
ried ; and  equally  certain  it  is  that  they 
were  the  happiest  of  the  happy ; and  no 
less  certain  it  is  that  they  deserved  to 
be  so.  And  it  is  pleasant  to  write  down 
that  they  reared  a family  ; because  any 
propagation  of  goodness  and  benevo- 
lence is  no  small  addition  to  the  aris- 
tocracy of  nature,  and  no  small  subject 
of  rejoicing  for  mankind  at  large. 

The  pony  preserved  his  character  for 
independence  and  principle  down  to  the 
last  moment  of  his  life  ; which  was  an 
unusually  long  one,  and  caused  him  to 
be  looked  upon,  indeed,  as  the  very 
Old  Parr  of  ponies.  He  often  went  to 
and  fro  with  the  little  phaeton  between 
Mr.  Garland’s  and  his  son’s,  and,  as 
the  old  people  and  the  young  were  fre- 
quently together,  had  a stable  of  his 
own  at  the  new  establishment,  into 
which  he  would  walk  of  himself  with 
surprising  dignity.  He  condescended 
to  play  with  the  children,  as  they  grew 
old*  enough  to  cultivate  his  friendship, 
and  would  run  up  and  down  the  little 
paddock  with  them  like  a dog ; but 
though  he  relaxed  so  far,  and  allowed 
them  such  small  freedoms  as  caresses, 
or  even  to  look  at  his  shoes  or  hang  on 
by  his  tail,  he  never  permitted  any  one 
among  them  to  mount  his  back  or  drive 
him  ; thus  showing  that  even  their  fa- 
miliarity must  have  its  limits,  and  that 
there  were  points  between  them  far  too 
serious  for  trifling. 

He  was  not  unsusceptible  of  warm 
attachments  in  his  later  life,  for  when 
the  good  bachelor  came  to  live  with 
Mr.  Garland  upon  the  clergyman’s  de- 
cease, he  conceived  a great  friendship 
for  him,  and  amiably  submitted  to  be 
driven  by  his  hands  without  the  least 
resistance.  He  did  no  work  for  two  or 
three  years  before  he  died,  but  lived  in 
clover  ; and  his  last  act  (like  a choleric 
old  gentleman)  w^as  to  kick  his  doctor. 

Mr.  Swiveller,  recovering  very  slow- 
ly from  his  illness,  and  entering  into 
the  receipt  of  his  annuity,  bought  for 
the  Marchioness  a handsome  stock  of 
clothes,  and  put  her  to  school  forthwith, 
in  redemption  of  the  vow  he  had  made 
upon  his  fevered  bed.  After  casting 
about  for  some  time  for  a name  which 
should  be  worthy  of  her,  he  decided  in 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


3i7 


favor  of  Sophronia  Sphynx,  as  being 
euphonious  and  genteel,  and  further- 
more indicative  of  mystery.  Under  this 
title  the  Marchioness  repaired,  in  tears, 
to  the  school  of  his  selection,  from 
which,  as  she  soon  distanced  all  com- 
petitors, she  was  removed  before  the 
lapse  of  many  quarters  to  one  of  a higher 
grade.  It  is  but  bare  justice  to  Mr. 
Swiveller  to  say,  that,  although  the 
expenses  of  her  education  kept  him  in 
straitened  circumstances  for  half  a dozen 
years,  he  never  slackened  in  his  zeal, 
and  always  held  himself  sufficientlv  re- 
paid by  the  accounts  he  heard  (with 
great  gravity)  of  her  advancement,  on 
his  monthly  visits  to  the  governess,  who 
looked  upon  him  as  a literary  gentle- 
man of  eccentric  habits,  and  of  a most 
prodigious  talent  in  quotation. 

In  a word,  Mr.  Swiveller  kept  the 
Marchioness  at  this  establishment  un- 
til she  was,  at  a moderate  guess,  full 
nineteen  years  of  age,  — good-looking, 
clever,  and  good-humored ; when*  he 
began  to  consider  seriously  what  was  to 
be  done  next.  On  one  of  his  periodical 
visits,  while  he  was  revolving  this  ques- 
tion in  his  mind,  the  Marchioness  came 
down  to  him,  alone,  looking  more  smil- 
ing and  more  fresh  than  ever.  Then, 
it  occurred  to  him,  but  not  for  the  first 
time,  that  if  she  would  marry  him,  how 
comfortable  they  might  be  ! So  Rich- 
ard asked  her ; whatever  she  said,  it 
wasn’t  No;  and  they  were  married  in 
good  earnest  that  day  week,  which  gave 
Mr.  Swiveller  frequent  occasion  to  re- 
mark at  divers  subsequent  periods  that 
there  had  been  a young  lady  saving  up 
for  him  after  all. 

A little  cottage  at  Hampstead  being 
to  let,  which  had  in  its  garden  a smok- 
ing-box. the  envy  of  the  civilized  world, 
they  agreed  to  become  its  tenants  ; and 
when  the  honeymoon  was  over,  entered 
upon  its  occupation.  To  this  retreat 
Mr.  Chuckster  repaired  regularly  every 
Sunday  to  spend  the  day,  — usually 
beginning  with  breakfast,  — and  here 
he  was  the  great  purveyor  of  general 
news  and  fashionable  intelligence.  For 
some  years  he  continued  a deadly  foe 
to  Kit,  protesting  that  he  had  abetter 
opinion  of  him  when  he  was  supposed 
to  have  stolen  the  five-pound  note  than 


when  he  was  shown  to  be  perfectly  free 
of  the  crime ; inasmuch  as  his  guilt 
would  have  had  in  it  something  daring 
and  bold,  whereas  his  innocence  was 
but  another  proof  of  a sneaking  and 
crafty  disposition.  By  slow  degrees, 
however,  he  was  reconciled  to  him  in 
the  end  ; and  even  went  so  far  as  to 
honor  him  with  his  patronage,  as  one 
who  had  in  some  measure  reformed,  and 
was  therefore  to  be  forgiven.  But  he 
never  forgot  or  pardoned  that  circum- 
stance of  the  shilling ; holding  that  if 
he  had  come  back  to  get  another  he 
would  have  done  well  enough,  but  that 
his  returning  to  work  out  the  former 
gift  was  a stain  upon  his  moral  char- 
acter which  no  penitence  or  contrition 
could  ever  wash  away. 

Mr.  Swiveller,  having  always  been  in 
some  measure  of  a philosophic  and  re- 
flective, turn,  grew  immensely  contem- 
plative, at  times,  in  the  smoking-box, 
and  was  accustomed  at  such  periods  to 
debate  in  his  own  mind  the  mysterious 
question  of  Sophronia’s  parentage.  So- 
phronia herself  supposed  she  was  an 
orphan  ; but  Mr.  Swiveller,  putting 
various  slight  circumstances  together, 
often  thought  Miss  Brass  must  know 
better  than  that  ; and,  having  heard 
from  his  wife  of  her  strange  interview 
with  Quilp,  entertained  sundry  misgiv- 
ings whether  that  person,  in  his  life- 
time, might  not  also  have  been  able  to 
solve  the  riddle,  had  he  chosen.  These 
speculations,  however,  gave  him  no  un- 
easiness ; for  Sophronia  was  ever  a 
most  cheerful,  affectionate,  and  provi- 
dent wife  to  him  ; and  Dick  (excepting 
for  an  occasional  outbreak  with  Mr. 
Chuckster,  which  she  had  the  good 
sense  rather  to  encourage  than  oppose) 
was  to  her  an  attached  and  domesti- 
cated husband.  And  they  played  many 
hundred  thousand  games  of  cribbage 
together.  And  let  it  be  added,  to 
Dick’s  honor,  that,  though  we  have 
called  her  Sophronia,  he  called  her  the 
Marchioness  from  first  to  last ; and  that 
upon  every  anniversary  of  the  day  on 
which  he  found  her  in  his  sick-room, 
Mr.  Chuckster  came  to  dinner,  and 
there  was  great  glorification. 

The  gamblers,  Isaac  List  and  Jowl, 
with  their  trusty  confederate  Mr.  James 


3i8 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


Groves  of  unimpeachable  memory,  pur- 
sued their  course  with  varying  success, 
until  the  failure  of  a spirited  enterprise 
in  the  way  of  their  profession  dispersed 
them  in  different  directions,  and  caused 
their  career  to  receive  a sudden  check 
from  the  long  and  strong  arm  of  the 
law.  This  defeat  had  its  origin  in  the 
untoward  detection  of  a new  associate, 
— young  Frederick  Trent, — who  thus 
became  the  unconscious  instrument  of 
their  punishment  and  his  own. 

For  the  young  man  himself,  he  rioted 
abroad  for  a brief  term,  living  by  his 
wits, — which  means  by  the  abuse  of 
every  faculty  that,  worthily  employed, 
raises  man  above  the  beasts,  and,  so 
degraded,  sinks  him  far  below  them. 
It  was  not  long  before  his  body  was 
recognized  by  a stranger,  who  chanced 
to  visit  that  hospital  in  Paris  where  the 
drowned  are  laid  out  to  be  owned, 
despite  the  bruises  and  disfigurements 
which  were  said  to  have  been  occa- 
sioned by  some  previous  scuffle.  But 
the  stranger  kept  his  own  counsel  until 
he  returned  home,  and  it  was  never 
claimed  or  cared  for. 

The  younger  brother,  or  the  single 
gentleman,  for  that  designation  is  more 
familiar,  would  have  drawn  the  poor 
schoolmaster  from  his  lone  retreat,  and 
made  him  his  companion  and  friend. 
But  the  humble  village  teacher  was 
timid  of  venturing  into  the  noisy  world, 
and  had  become  fond  of  his  dwelling  in 
the  old  churchyard.  Calmly  happy  in 
his  school,  and  in  the  spot,  and  in  the 
attachment  of  Her  little  mourner,  he 
pursued  his  quiet  course  in  peace  ; and 
was,  through  the  righteous  gratitude  of 
his  friend  — let  this  brief  mention 
suffice  for  that  — a poor  schoolmaster 
no  more. 

That  friend  — single  gentleman,  or 
younger  brother,  which  you  will  — had 
at  his  heart  a heavy  sorrow ; but  it  bred 
in  him  no  misanthropy  or  monastic 
gloom.  He  went  forth  into  the  world, 
a lover  of  his  kind.  For  a long,  long 
time  it  was  his  chief  delight  to  travel 
in  the  steps  of  the  old  man  and  the 
child  (so  far  as  he  could  trace  them 
from  her  last  narrative),  to  halt  where 
they  had  halted,  sympathize  where  they 
had  suffered,  and  rejoice  where  they 


had  been  made  glad.  Those  who  had 
been  kind  to  them  did  not  escape  his 
search.  The  sisters  at  the  school,  — 
they  who  were  her  friends,  because 
themselves  so  friendless  ; Mrs.  Jarley 
of  the  wax-work;  Codlin,  Short, — he 
found  them  all  ; and  trust  me,  the  man 
who  fed  the  furnace  fire  was  not  for- 
gotten. 

Kit’s  story,  having  got  abroad,  raised 
him  up  a host  of  friends,  and  many  offers 
of  provision  for  his  future  life.  He  had 
no  idea  at  first  of  ever  quitting  Mr.  Gar- 
land’s service  ; but,  after  serious  remon- 
strance and  advice  from  that  gentleman, 
began  to  contemplate  the  possibility  of 
such  a change  being  brought  about  in 
time.  A good  post  was  procured  for 
him,  with  a rapidity  which  took  away 
his  breath,  by  some  of  the  gentlemen 
who  had  believed  him  guilty  of  the  of- 
fence laid  to  his  charge,  and  who  had 
acted  upon  that  belief.  Through  the 
same  kind  agency,  his  mother  was  se- 
cured from  want,  and  made  quite  hap- 
py. Thus,  as  Kit  often  said,  his  great 
misfortune  turned  out  to  be  the  source 
of  all  his  subsequent  prosperity. 

Did  Kit  live  a single  man  all  his  days, 
or  did  he  marry  ? Of  course  he  married, 
and  who  should  be  his  wife  but  Barba- 
ra? And  the  best  of  it  was,  he  married 
so  soon  that  little  Jacob  was  an  uncle, 
before  the  calves  of  his  legs,  already 
mentioned  in  this  history,  had  ever 
been  encased  in  broadcloth  pantaloons, 
— though  that  was  not  quite  the  best 
either,  for  of  necessity  the  baby  was  an 
uncle  too.  The  delight  of  Kit’s  mother 
and  of  Barbara’s  mother  upon  the  great 
occasion  is  past  all  telling  ; finding  they 
agreed  so  well  on  that,  and  on  all  other 
subjects,  they  took  up  their  abode  to- 
gether, and  were  a most  harmonious 
pair  of  friends  from  that  time  forth. 
And  hadn’t  Astley’s  cause  to  bless  it- 
self for  their  all  going  together  once  a 
quarter,  to  the  pit ; and  did  n’t  Kit’s 
mother  always  say,  when  they  painted 
the  outside,  that  Kit’s  last  treat  had 
helped  to  that,  and  wonder  what  the 
manager  would  feel  if  he  but  knew  it 
as  they  passed  his  house ! 

When  Kit  had  children  six  and  seven 
years  old,  there  was  a Barbara  among 
them,  and  a pretty  Barbara  she  was. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


319 


Nor  was  there  wanting  an  exact  fac- 
simile and  copy  of  little  Jacob  as  he 
appeared  in  those  remote  times  when 
they  taught  him  what  oysters  meant. 
Of  course  there  was  an  Abel,  own 
godson  to  the  Mr.  Garland  of  that 
name  ; and  there  was  a Dick,  whom 
Mr.  Swiveller  did  especially  favor. 
The  little  group  would  often  gather 
round  him  of  a night  and  beg  him  to 
tell  again  that  story  of  good  Miss  Nell 
who  died.  This  Kit  would  do  ; and 
when  they  cried  to  hear  it,  wishing  it 
longer  too,  he  would  teach  them  how 
she  had  gone  to  Heaven,  as  all  good 
people  did ; and  how,  if  they  were 
good  like  her,  they  may  hope  to  be 
there  too,  one  day,  and  to  see  and 
know  her  as  he  had  done  when  he 
was  quite  a boy.  Then,  he  would  re- 
late to  them  how  needy  he  used  to  be, 
and  how  she  had  taught  him  what  he 


was  otherwise  too  poor  to  learn,  and 
how  the  old  man  had  been  used  to 
say,  “ She  always  laughs  at  Kit  ” ; at 
which  they  would  brush  away  their 
tears,  and  laugh  themselves  to  think 
that  she  had  done  so,  and  be  again 
quite  merry. 

He  sometimes  took  them  to  the  street 
where  she  had  lived ; but  new  improve- 
ments had  altered  it  so  much  it  was  not 
like  the  same.  The  old  house  had  been 
long  ago  pulled  down,  and  a fine  broad 
road  was  in  its  place.  At  first,  he  would 
draw  with  his  stick  a square  upon  the 
ground  to  show  them  where  it  used  to 
stand.  But  he  soon  became  uncertain 
of  the  spot,  and  could  only  say  it  was 
thereabouts,  he  thought,  and  that  these 
alterations  were  confusing. 

Such  are  the  changes  which  a few 
years  bring  about,  and  so  do  things 
pass  away,  like  a tale  that  is  told  I 


REPRINTED  PIECES. 


21 


REPRINTED  PIECES 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE. 


When  the  wind  is  blowing  and  the 
sleet  or  rain  is  driving  against  the  dark 
windows,  I love  to  sit  by  the  fire,  think- 
ing of  what  I have  read  in  books  of 
voyage  and  travel.  Such  books  have 
had  a strong  fascination  for  my  mind 
from  my  earliest  childhood ; and  I 
wonder  it  should  have  come  to  pass 
that  I never  have  been  round  the  world, 
never  have  been  shipwrecked,  ice-envi- 
roned, tomahawked,  or  eaten. 

Sitting  on  my  ruddy  hearth  in  the 
twilight  of  New-Year’s  eve,  I find  inci- 
dents of  travel  rise  around  me  from  all 
the  latitudes  and  longitudes  of  the 
globe.  They  observe  no  order  or  se- 
quence, but  appear  and  vanish  as  they 
will,  — “ come  like  shadows,  so  de- 
part.” Columbus,  alone  upon  the  sea 
with  his  disaffected  crew,  looks  over 
the  waste  of  waters  from  his  high  sta- 
tion on  the  poop  of  his  ship,  and  sees 
the  first  uncertain  glimmer  of  the  light, 
“ rising  and  falling  with  the  waves,  like 
a torch  in  the  bark  of  some  fisherman,” 
which  is  the  shining  star  of  a new 
world.  Bruce  is  caged  in  Abyssinia, 
surrounded  by  the  gory  horrors  which 
shall  often  startle  him  out  of  his  sleep 
at  home  when  years  have  passed  away. 
Franklin,  come  to  the  end  of  his  unhap- 
py overland  journey, — would  that  it 
had  been  his  last ! — lies  perishing  of 
hunger  with  his  brave  companions; 
each  emaciated  figure  stretched  upon 
its  miserable  bed  without  the  power 
to  rise  ; all  dividing  the  weary  days 
between  their  prayers,  their  remem- 
brances of  the  dear  ones  at  home,  and 
conversation  on  the  pleasures  of  eat- 
ing ; the  last-named  topic  being  ever 


present  to  them,  likewise,  in  their 
dreams.  All  the  African  travellers, 
wayworn,  solitary,  and  sad,  submit 
themselves  again  to  drunken,  murder- 
ous, man-selling  despots,  of  the  lowest 
order  of  humanity ; and  Mungo  Park, 
fainting  under  a tree  and  succored  by  a 
woman,  gratefully  remembers  how  his 
Good  Samaritan  has  always  come  to 
him  in  woman’s  shape,  the  wide  world 
over. 

A shadow  on  the  wall  in  which  my 
mind’s  eye  can  discern  some  traces  of  a 
rocky  sea-coast,  recalls  to  me  a fearful 
story  of  travel  derived  from  that  un- 
promising narrator  of  such  stories,  a 
parliamentary  blue-book.  A convict  is 
its  chief  figure,  and  this  man  escapes 
with  other  prisoners  from  a penal  set- 
tlement. It  is  an  island,  and  they 
seize  a boat,  and  get  to  the  mainland. 
Their  way  is  by  a rugged  and  precipi- 
tous sea-shore,  and  they  have  no  earthly 
hope  of  ultimate  escape,  for  the  party 
of  soldiers  despatched  by  an  easier 
course  to  cut  them  off  must  inevitably 
arrive  at  their  distant  bourn  long  be- 
fore them,  and  retake  them  if  by  any 
hazard  they  survive  the  horrors  of  the 
way.  Famine,  as  they  all  must  have 
foreseen,  besets  them  early  in  their 
course.  Some  of  the  party  die  and 
are  eaten ; some  are  murdered  by  the 
rest  and  eaten.  This  one  awful  crea- 
ture eats  his  fill,  and  sustains  his 
strength,  and  lives  on  to  be  recaptured 
and  taken  back.  The  unrelatable  ex- 
periences through  which  he  has  passed 
have  been  so  tremendous  that  he  is 
not  hanged  as  he  might  be,  but  goes 
back  to  his  old  chained  gang-work.  A 


324 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE. 


little  time,  and  he  tempts  one  other 
prisoner  away,  seizes  another  boat,  and 
flies  once  more,  — necessarily  in  the 
old  hopeless  direction,  for  he  can  take 
no  other.  He  is  soon  cut  off,  and  met 
by  the  pursuing  party,  face  to  face, 
upon  the  beach.  He  is  alone.  In  his 
former  journey  he  acquired  an  inap- 
peasable  relish  for  his  dreadful  food. 
He  urged  the  new  man  away,  expressly 
to  kill  him  and  eat  him.  In  the  pock- 
ets on  one  side  of  his  coarse  convict- 
dress  are  portions  of  the  man’s  body, 
on  which  he  is  regaling ; in  the  pockets 
on  the  other  side  is  an  untouched  store 
of  salted  pork  (stolen  before  he  left  the 
island)  for  which  he  has  no  appetite. 
He  is  taken  back,  and  he  is  hanged. 
But  I shall  never  see  that  s*ea-beach  on 
the  wall  or  in  the  fire,  without  him, 
solitary  monster,  eating  as  he  prowls 
along,  while  the  sea  rages  and  rises  at 
him. 

Captain  Bligh  (a  worse  man  to  be 
intrusted  with  arbitrary  power  there 
could  scarcely  be)  is  handed  over  the 
side  of  the  Bounty,  and  turned  adrift  on 
the  wide  ocean  in  an  open  boat,  by 
order  of  Fletcher  Christian,  one  of  his 
officers,  at  this  very  minute.  Another 
flash  of  my  fire,  and  “Thursday  Octo- 
ber Christian,”  five-and-twenty  years 
of  age,  son  of  the  dead  and  gone  Fletch- 
er by  a savage  mother,  leaps  aboard 
his  Majesty’s  ship  Briton,  hove  to  off 
Pitcairn’s  Island  ; says  his  simple  grace 
before  eating,  in  good  English  ; and 
knows  that  a pretty  little  animal  on 
board  is  called  a dog,  because  in  his 
childhood  he  had  heard  of  such  strange 
creatures  from  his  father  and  the  other 
mutineers,  grown  gray  under  the  shade 
of  the  bread-fruit  trees,  speaking  of 
their  lost  country  far  away. 

See  the  Halsewell,  East  Indiaman 
outward  bound,  driving  madly  on  a 
January  night  towards  the  rocks  near 
Seacombe,  on  the  island  of  Purbeck  ! 
The  captain’s  two  dear  daughters  are 
aboard,  and  five  other  ladies.  The 
ship  has  been  driving  many  hours,  has 
seven  feet  water  in  her  hold,  and  her 
mainmast  has  been  cut  away.  The 
description  of  her  loss,  familiar  to  me 
from  my  early  boyhood,  seems  to  be 
read  aloud  as  she  rushes  to  her  destiny. 


“About  two  in  the  morning  of  Fri- 
day the  sixth  of  January,  the  ship  still 
driving,  and  approaching  very  fast  to 
the  shore,  Mr.  Henry  Meriton,  the 
second  mate,  went  again  into  the  cud- 
dy, where  the  captain  then  was.  An- 
other conversation  taking  place,  Captain 
Pierce  expressed  extreme  anxiety  for 
the  preservation  of  his  beloved  daugh- 
ters, and  earnestly  asked  the  officer  if 
he  could  devise  any  method  of  saving 
them.  On  his  answering,  with  great 
concern,  that  he  feared  it  would  be 
impossible,  but  that  their  only  chance 
wrould  be  to  wait  for  morning,  the  cap- 
tain lifted  up  his  hands  in  silent  and 
distressful  ejaculation. 

“At  this  dreadful  moment,  the  ship 
struck,  with  such  violence  as  to  dash 
the  heads  of  those  standing  in  the 
cuddy  against  the  deck  above  them, 
and  the  shock  w'as  accompanied  by  a 
shriek  of  horror  that  burst  at  one  in- 
stant from  every  quarter  of  the  ship. 

“ Many  of  the  seamen,  who  had  been 
remarkably  inattentive  and  remiss  in 
their  duty  during  great  part  of  the 
storm,  now  poured  upon  deck,  w'here 
no  exertions  of  the  officers  could  keep 
them  while  their  assistance  might  have 
been  useful.  They  had  actually  skulked 
in  their  hammocks,  leaving  the  work- 
ing of  the  pumps  and  other  necessary 
labors  to  the  officers  of  the  ship,  and 
the  soldiers,  who  had  made  uncommon 
exertions.  Roused  by  a sense  of  their 
danger,  the  same  seamen,  at  this  mo- 
ment, in  frantic  exclamations,  demand- 
ed of  heaven  and  their  fellow-sufferers 
that  succor  which  their  own  efforts 
timely  made  might  possibly  have  pro- 
cured. 

“The  ship  continued  to  beat  on  the 
rocks ; and  soon  bilging,  fell  with  her 
broadside  towards  the  shore.  When  she 
struck,  a number  of  the  men  climbed 
up  the  ensign-staff,  under  an  apprehen- 
sion of  her  immediately  going  to  pieces. 

“ Mr.  Meriton,  at  this  crisis,  offered 
to  these  unhappy  beings  the  best  advice 
which  could  be  given  : he  recommended 
that  all  should  come  to  the  side  of  the 
ship  lying  lowest  on  the  rocks,  and 
singly  to  take  the  opportunities  which 
might  then  offer  of  escaping  to  the 
shore. 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE. 


325 


“ Having  thus  provided,  to  the  ut- 
most of  his  power,  for  the  safety  of  the 
desponding  crew,  he  returned  to  the 
round-house,  where,  by  this  time,  all 
the  passengers  and  most  of  the  officers 
had  assembled.  The  latter  were  em- 
ployed in  offering  consolation  to  the 
unfortunate  ladies ; and,  with  unpar- 
alleled magnanimity,  suffering  their 
compassion  for  the  fair  and  amiable 
companions  of  their  misfortunes  to  pre- 
vail over  the  sense  of  their  own  danger. 

“In  this  charitable  work  of  comfort, 
Mr.  Meriton  now  joined,  by  assurances 
of  his  opinion  that  the  ship  would 
hold  together  till  the  morning,  when  all 
would  be  safe.  Captain  Pierce,  observ- 
ing one  of  the  young  gentlemen  loud  in 
his  exclamations  of  terror,  and  frequent- 
ly cry  that  the  ship  was  parting,  cheer- 
fully bid  him  be  quiet,  remarking  that 
though  the  ship  should  go  to  pieces,  he 
/would  not,  but  would  be  safe  enough. 

' “It  is  difficult  to  convey  a correct  . 
idea  of  the  scene  of  this  deplorable  ca- 
tastrophe, without  describing  the  place 
where  it  happened.  The  Halsewell 
struck  on  the  rocks  at  a part  of  the 
shore  where  the  cliff  is  of  vast  height, 
and  rises  almost  perpendicular  from  its 
base.  But  at  this  particular  spot,  the 
foot  of  the  cliff  is  excavated  into  a cav- 
ern of  ten  or  twelve  yards  in  depth,  and 
of  breadth  equal  to  t he  length  of  a large 
ship.  The  sides  of  the  cavern  are  so 
n early-upright  as  to  be  of  extremely 
difficult  access  ; and  the  bottom  is 
strewed  with  sharp  and  uneven  rocks, 
which  seem,  by  some  convulsion  of  the 
earth,  to  have  been  detached  from  its 
roof. 

“The  ship  lay  with  her  broadside 
opposite  to  the  mouth  of  this  cavern, 
with  her  whole  length  stretched  almost 
from  side  to  side  of  it.  But  when  she 
struck,  it  was  too  dark  for  the  unfortu- 
nate persons  on  board  to  discover  the 
real  magnitude  of  their  danger,  and  the 
extreme  horror  of  such  a situation. 

“ In  addition  to  the  company  already 
in  the  round-house,  they  had  admitted 
three  black  women  and  two  soldiers’ 
wives;  who,  with  the  husband  of  one 
of  them,  had  been  allowed  to  come  in, 
though  the  seamen,  who  had  tumultu- 
ously demanded  entrance  to  get  the 


lights,  had  been  opposed  and  kept  out 
by  Mr.  Rogers  and  Mr.  Brimer,  the 
third  and  fifth  mates.  The  numbers 
there  were,  therefore,  now  increased  to 
near  fifty.  Captain  Pierce  sat  on  a 
chair,  a cot,  or  some  other  movable, 
with  a daughter  on  each  side,  whom  he 
alternately  pressed  to  his  affectionate 
breast.  The  rest  of  the  melancholy 
assembly  were  seated  on  the  . deck, 
which  was  strewed  with  musical  instru- 
ments and  the  wreck  of  furniture  and 
other  articles. 

“ Here  also  Mr.  Meriton,  after  hav- 
ing cut  several  wax-candles  in  pieces, 
and  stuck  them  up  in  various  parts  of 
the  round-house,  and  lighted  up  all 
the  glass  lanterns  he  could  find,  took 
his  seat,  intending  to  wait  the  approach 
of  dawn,  and  then  assist  the  partners 
of  his  dangers  to  escape.  But,  observ- 
ing that  the  poor  ladies  appeared 
parched  and  exhausted,  he  brought  a 
basket  of  oranges  and  prevailed  on 
some  of  them  to  refresh  themselves  by 
sucking  a little  of  the  juice.  At  this 
time  they  were  all  tolerably  composed, 
except  Miss  Mansel,  who  was  in  hys- 
teric fits  on  the  floor  of  the  deck  of 
the  round-house. 

“But  on  Mr.  Meriton’s  return  to  the 
company,  he  perceived  a considerable 
alteration  in  the  appearance  of  the  ship  ; 
the  sides  were  visibly  giving  way  ; the 
deck  seemed  to  be  lifting  ; and  he  dis- 
covered other  strong  indications  that 
she  could  not  hold  much  longer  togeth- 
er. On  this  account,  he  attempted  to 
go  forward  to  look  out,  but  immediate- 
ly saw  that  the  ship  had  separated  in 
the  middle,  and  that  the  forepart,  hav- 
ing changed  its  position,  lay  rather 
farther  out  towards  the  sea.  In  such 
an  emergency,  when  the  next  moment 
might  plunge  him  into  eternity,  he  de- 
termined to  seize  the  present  opportu- 
nity, and  follow  the  example  of  the  crew 
and  the  soldiers,  who  were  now  quitting 
the  ship  in  numbers,  and  making  their 
way  to  the  shore,  though  quite  ignorant 
of  its  nature  and  description. 

“ Among  other  expedients,  the  en- 
sign-staff had  been  unshipped,  and 
attempted  to  be  laid  between  the  ship’s 
side  and  some  of  the  rocks,  but  without 
success,  fcr  it  snapped  asunder  before 


326 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE. 


it  reached  them.  However,  by  the 
light  of  a lantern,  which  a seaman 
handed  through  the  skylight  of  the 
round-house  to  the  deck,  Mr.  Meriton 
discovered  a spar  which  appeared  to  be 
laid  from  the  ship’s  side  to  the  rocks, 
and  on  this  spar  he  resolved  to  attempt 
his  escape. 

“ Accordingly,  lying  down  upon  it, 
he  thrust  himself  forward ; however, 
he  soon  found  that  it  had  no  communi- 
cation with  the  rock.  He  reached  the 
end  of  it  and  then  slipped  off,  receiving 
a very  violent  bruise  in  his  fall,  and 
before  he  could  recover  his  legs,  he 
was  washed  off  by  the  surge.  He  now 
supported  himself  by  swimming,  until 
a returning  wave  dashed  him  against 
the  back  part  of  the  cavern.  Here  he 
laid  hold  of  a small  projection  in  the 
rock,  but  was  so  much  benumbed  that 
he  was  on  the  point  of  quitting  it,  when 
a seaman,  who  had  already  gained  a 
footing,  extended  his  hand,  and  assisted 
him  until  he  could  secure  himself  a lit- 
tle on  the  rock  ; from  which  he  clam- 
bered on  a shelf  still  higher,  and  out 
of  the  reach  of  the  surf. 

“Mr.  Rogers,  the  third  mate,  re- 
mained with  the  captain  and  the  un- 
fortunate ladies  and  their  companions 
nearly  twenty  minutes  after  Mr.  Meri- 
ton had  quitted  the  ship.  Soon  after 
the  latter  left  the  round-house,  the 
captain  asked  what  was  become  of  him, 
to  which  Mr.  Rogers  replied,  that  he 
was  gone  on  deck  to  see  what  could  be 
done.  After  this,  a heavy  sea  breaking 
over  the  ship,  the  ladies  exclaimed, 
‘ O poor  Meriton  ! he  is  drowned ! had 
he  stayed  with  us  he  would  have  been 
safe!’  and  they  all,  particularly  Miss 
hi  ary  Pierce,  expressed  great  concern 
at  the  apprehension  of  his  loss. 

“ The  sea  was  now  breaking  in  at  the 
forepart  of  the  ship,  and  reached  as 
far  as  the  mainmast.  Captain  Pierce 
gave  Mr.  Rogers  a nod,  and  they  took 
a lamp  and  went  together  into  the 
stern -gallery,  where,  after  viewing  the 
rocks  for  some  time,  Captain  Pierce 
asked  Mr.  Rogers  if  he  thought  there 
was  any  possibility  of  saving  the  girls  ; 
to  which  he  replied,  he  feared  there 
was  none  ; for  they  could  only  discover 
the  black  face  of  the  perpendicular  rock 


and  not  the  cavern  which  afforded  shel- 
ter to  those  who  escaped.  They  then 
returned  to  the  round-house,  where 
Mr.  Rogers  hung  up  the  lamp,  and 
Captain  Pierce  sat  down  between  his 
two  daughters. 

“ The  sea  continuing  to  break  in  very 
fast,  Mr.  Macmanus,  a midshipman, 
and  Mr.  Schutz,  a passenger,  asked 
Mr.  Rogers  what  they  could  do  to  es- 
cape. ‘Follow  me,’  he  replied,  and 
they  all  went  into  the  stern-gallery,  and 
from  thence  to  the  upper-quarter- gallery 
on  the  poop.  While  there,  a very  heavy 
sea  fell  on  board,  and  the  round-house 
gave  way.  Mr.  Rogers  heard  the  ladies 
shriek  at  intervals  as  if  the  water  reached 
them  ; the  noise  of  the  sea  at  other 
times  drowning  their  voices. 

“Mr.  Brimer  had  followed  him  to  the 
poop,  where  they  remained  together 
about  five  minutes,  when  on  the  break- 
ing of  this  heavy  sea,  they  jointly  seized 
a hen-coop.  The  same  wave  which 
proved  fatal  to  some  of  those  below 
carried  him  and  his  companion  to  the 
rock,  on  which  they  were  violently 
dashed  and  miserably  bruised. 

“ Here  on  the  rock  were  twenty-seven 
men  ; but  it  now  being  low  water,  and 
as  they  were  convinced  that  on  the 
flowing  of  the  tide  all  must  be  washed 
off,  many  attempted  to  get  to  the  back 
or  the  sides  of  the  cavern,  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  returning  sea.  Scarcelj 
more  than  six,  besides  Mr.  Rogers  and 
Mr.  Brimer,  succeeded. 

“Mr.  Rogers,  on  gaining  this  station, 
was  so  nearly  exhausted  that  had  his 
exertions  been  protracted  only  a few 
minutes  longer,  he  must  have  sunk 
under  them.  He  was  now  prevented 
from  joining  Mr.  Meriton,  by  at  least 
twenty  men  between  them,  none  of 
whom  could  move  without  the  immi- 
nent peril  of  his  life. 

“ They  found  that  a very  considerable 
number  of  the  crew,  seamen,  and  sol- 
diers, and  some  petty  officers,  were  in 
the  same  situation  as  themselves,  though 
many  who  had  reached  the  rocks  be- 
low perished  in  attempting  to  ascend. 
They  could  yet  discern  some  part  of 
the  ship,  and  in  their  dreary  station 
solaced  themselves  with  the  hopes  of 
its  remaining  entire  until  daybreak ; for. 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  Or  ILLINOIS 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE. 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE . 


327 


in  the  midst  of  their  own  distress,  the 
sufferings  of  the  females  on  board  af- 
fected them  with  the  most  poignant 
anguish ; and  every  sea  that  broke  in- 
spired them  with  terror  for  their  safety. 

“ But,  alas,  their  apprehensions  were 
too  soon  realized  ! Within  a very  few 
minutes  of  the  time  that  Mr.  Rogers 
gained  the  rock,  an  universal  shriek, 
which  long  vibrated  in  their  ears,  in 
which  the  voice  of  female  distress  was 
lamentably  distinguished,  announced 
the  dreadful  catastrophe.  In  a few 
moments  all  was  hushed,  except  the 
roaring  of  the  winds  and  the  dashing  of 
the  waves.  The  wreck  was  buried  in 
the  deep,  and  not  an  atom  of  it  was 
ever  afterwards  seen.” 

The  most  beautiful  and  affecting  inci- 
dent I know,  associated  with  a ship- 
wreck, succeeds  this  dismal  story  for  a 
winter  night.  The  Grosvenor,  East  In- 
diaman  homeward  bound,  goes  ashore 
on  the  coast  of  Caffraria.  It  is  resolved 
that  the  officers,  passengers,  and  crew, 
in  number  one  hundred  and  thirty-five 
souls,  shall  endeavor  to  penetrate  on 
foot,  across  trackless  deserts,  infested 
by  wild  beasts  and  cruel  savages,  to  the 
Dutch  settlements  at  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope.  With  this  forlorn  object  before 
them,  they  finally  separate  into  two  par- 
ties.— nevermore  to  meet  on  earth. 

There  is  a solitary  child  among  the 
passengers,  — a little  boy  of  seven  years 
old  who  has  no  relation  there  ; and 
when  the  first  party  is  moving  away  he 
cries  after  some  member  of  it  who  has 
been  kind  to  him.  The  crying  of  a 
child  might  be  supposed  to  be  a little 
thing  to  men  in  such  great  extremity  ; 
but  it  touches  them,  and  he  is  immedi- 
ately taken  into  that  detachment. 

From  which  time  forth,  this  child  is 
sublimely  made  a sacred  charge.  He 
is  pushed  on  a little  raft,  across  broad 
rivers,  by  the  swimming  sailors ; they 
carry  him  by  turns  through  the  deep 
sand  and  long  grass  (he  patiently  walk- 
ing at  all  other  times) ; they  share  with 
him  such  putrid  fish  as  they  find  to  eat  ; 
they  lie  down  and  wait  for  him  when 
the  rough  carpenter,  who  becomes  his 
especial  friend,  lags  behind.  Beset  by 
lions  and  tigers,  by  savages,  by  thirst, 


by  hunger,  by  death  in  a crowd  of 
ghastly  shapes,  they  never — O Father 
of  all  mankind,  thy  name  be  blessed 
for  it  ! — forget  this  child.  The  captain 
stops  exhausted,  and  his  faithful  cock- 
swain goes  back  and  is  seen  to  sit  down 
by  his  side,  and  neither  of  the  two  shall 
be  any  more  beheld  until  the  great  last 
day  ; but,  as  the  rest  go  on  for  their 
lives,  they  take  the  child  with  them. 
The  carpenter  dies  of  poisonous  berries 
eaten  in  starvation  ; and  the  steward, 
succeeding  to  the  command  of  the 
party,  succeeds  to  the  sacred  guardian- 
ship of  the  child. 

God  knows  all  he  does  for  the  poor 
baby  ; how  he  cheerfully  carries  him  in 
his  arms  when  he  himself  is  weak  and 
ill ; how  he  feeds  him  when  he  himself 
is  griped  with  want  ; how  he  folds  his 
ragged  jacket  round  him,  lays  his  little 
worn  face  with  a woman’s  tenderness 
upon  his  sunburnt  breast,  soothes  him 
in  his  sufferings,  sings  to  him  as  he 
limps  along,  unmindful  of  his  own 
parched  and  bleeding  feet.  Divided 
for  a few  days  from  the  rest,  they  dig  a 
grave  in  the  sand  and  bury  their  good 
friend  the  cooper,  — these  two  compan- 
ions alone  in  the  wilderness,  — and  then 
the  time  comes  when  they  both  are  ill 
and  beg  their  wretched  partners  in  de- 
spair, reduced  and  few  in  number  now, 
to  wait  by  them  one  day.  They  wait  by 
them  one  day,  they  wait  by  them  two 
days.  On  the  morning  of  the  third, 
they  move  very  softly  about,  in  making 
their  preparations  for  the  resumption 
of  their  journey  ; for  the  child  is  sleep- 
ing by  the  fire,  and  it  is  agreed  with  one 
consent  that  he  shall  not  be  disturbed 
until  the  last  moment.  The  moment 
comes,  the  fire  is  dying,  — and  the  child 
is  dead. 

His  faithful  friend,  the  steward,  lin- 
gers but  a little  while  behind  him.  His 
grief  is  great,  he  staggers  on  for  a few 
days,  lies  down  in  the  desert,  and  dies. 
But  he  shall  be  reunited  in  his  immor- 
tal spirit  — who  can  doubt  it?  — with 
the  child,  where  he  and  the  poor  car- 
penter shall  be  raised  up  with  the 
words,  “ Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it 
unto  the  least  of  these,  ye  have  done  it 
unto  Me.” 

As  I recall  the  dispersal  and  disap- 


328 


THE  BEGGING-LETTER  WRITER. 


pearance  of  nearly  all  the  participators 
in  this  once  famous  shipwreck  (a  mere 
handful  being  recovered  at  last),  and 
the  legends  that  were  long  afterwards 
revived  from  time  to  time  among  the 
English  officers  at  the  Cape,  of  a white 
woman  with  an  infant,  said  to  have 
been  seen  weeping  outside  a savage 
hut  far  in  the  interior,  who  was  whis- 
peringly  associated  with  the  remem- 
brance of  the  missing  ladies  saved  from 
the  wrecked  vessel,  and  who  was  often 
sought  but  never  found,  thoughts  of  an- 
other kind  of  travel  come  into  my  mind. 

Thoughts  of  a voyager  unexpectedly 
summoned  from  home,  who  travelled  a 
vast  distance,  and  could  never  return. 
Thoughts  of  this  unhappy  wayfarer  in 
the  depths  of  his  sorrow,  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  anguish,  in  the  helplessness 
of  his  self-reproach,  in  the  desperation 
of  his  desire  to  set  right  what  he  had  left 
wrong,  and  do  what  he  had  left  undone. 

For  there  were  many,  many  things  he 
had  neglected.  Little  matters  while  he 
was  at  home  and  surrounded  by  them, 
but  things  of  mighty  moment  when  he 
was  at  an  immeasurable  distance.  There 
were  many,  many  blessings  that  he  had 


inadequately  felt,  there  were  many  tr vial 
injuries  that  he  had  not  forgiven,  there 
was  love  that  he  had  but  poorly  re- 
turned, there  was  friendship  that  he  had 
too  lightly  prized,  there  were  a million 
kind  words  that  he  might  have  spoken, 
a million  kind  looks  that  he  might  have 
given,  uncountable  slight  easy  deeds 
in  which  he  might  have  been  most 
truly  great  and  good.  O for  day  (he 
would  exclaim),  for  but  one  day  to  make 
amends ! But  the  sun  never  shone 
upon  that  happy  day,  and  out  of  his 
remote  captivity  he  never  came. 

Why  does  this  traveller’s  fate  obscure, 
on  New-Year’s  eve,  the  other  histories 
of  travellers  with  which  my  mind  was 
filled  but  now,  and  cast  a solemn  shad- 
ow over  me  ! Must  I one  day  make  his 
journey?  Even  so.  Who  shall  say 
that  I may  not  then  be  tortured  by  such 
late  regrets,  — that  I may  not  then  look 
from  my  exile  on  my  empty  place  and 
undone  work?  I stand  upon  a sea- 
shore, where  the  waves  are  years.  They 
break  and  fall,  and  I may  little  heed 
them  ; but  with  every  wave  the  sea  is 
rising,  and  I know  that  it  will  float  me 
on  this  traveller’s  voyage  at  last. 


THE  BEGGING-LETTER  WRITER. 


The  amount  of  money  he  annually 
diverts  from  wholesome  and  useful  pur- 
oses  in  the  United  Kingdom  would 
e a set-off  against  the  Window  Tax. 
He  is  one  of  the  most  shameless  frauds 
and  impositions  of  this  time.  In  his 
idleness,  his  mendacity,  and  the  im- 
measurable harm  he  does  to  the  deserv- 
ing, — dirtying  the  stream  of  true  benev- 
olence, and  muddling  the  brains  of  fool- 
ish justices,  with  inability  to  distinguish 
between  the  base  coin  of  distress,  and 
the  true  currency  we  have  always  among 
us,  — he  is  more  worthy  of  Norfolk  Isl- 
and than  three  fourths  of  the  worst 
characters  who  are  sent  there.  Under 


any  rational  system,  he  would  have 
been  sent  there  long  ago. 

I,  the  writer  of  this  paper,  have  been, 
for  some  time,  a chosen  receiver  of 
Begging  Letters.  For  fourteen  years, 
my  house  has  been  made  as  regular  a 
Receiving  House  for  such  communica- 
tions, as  any  one  of  the  great  branch 
post-offices  is  for  general  correspond- 
ence. I ought  to  know  something  of 
the  Begging- Letter  Writer.  He  has 
besieged  my  door,  at  all  hours  of  the 
day  and  night ; he  has  fought  my  ser- 
vant ; he  has  lain  in  ambush  for  me, 
going  out  and  coming  in ; he  has  fol- 
lowed me  out  of  town  into  the  country ; 


THE  BEGGING-LETTER  WRITER. 


329 


he  has  appeared  at  provincial  hotels, 
where  I have  been  staying  for  only  a 
few  hours ; he  has  written  to  me  from 
immense  distances,  when  I have  been 
out  of  England.  He  has  fallen  sick ; 
he  has  died,  and  been  buried ; he  has 
come  to  life  again,  and  again  departed 
from  this  transitory  scene  ; he  has  been 
his  own  son,  his  own  mother,  his  own 
baby,  his  idiot  brother,  his  uncle,  his 
aunt,  his  aged  grandfather.  He  has 
wanted  a great-coat,  to  go  to  India  in  ; 
a pound  to  set  him  up  in  life'  forever ; 
a pair  of  boots,  to  take  him  to  the  coast 
of  China  ; a hat,  to  get  him  into  a per- 
manent situation  under  government. 
He  has  frequently  been  exactly  seven 
and  sixpence  short  of  independence. 
He  has  had  such  openings  at  Liver- 
pool — posts  of  great  trust  and  confi- 
dence in  merchants’  houses,  which  noth- 
ing but  seven  and  sixpence  was  wanting 
to  him  to  secure  — that  I wonder  he  is 
nc/t  mayor  of  that  flourishing  town  at 
the  present  moment. 

The  natural  phenomena  of  which 
/he  has  been  the  victim  are  of  a most 
/ astounding  nature.  He  has  had  two 
/ children,  who  have  never  grown  up ; 
who  have  never  had  anything  to  cover 
them  at  night ; who  have  been  continu- 
ally driving  him  mad,  by  asking  in  vain 
for  food  ; who  have  never  come  out  of 
fevers  and  measles  (which,  I suppose, 
has  accounted  for  his  fuming  his  letters 
with  tobacco-smoke,  as  a disinfectant) ; 
who  have  never  changed  in  the  least 
degree  through  fourteen  long  revolving 
years.  As  to  his  wife,  what  that  suffering 
woman  has  undergone,  nobody  knows. 
She  has  always  been  in  an  interesting 
situation  through  the  same  long  period, 
and  has  never  been  confined  yet.  His 
devotion  to  her  has  been  unceasing. 
He  has  never  cared  for  himself ; he 
could  have  perished,  — he  would  rather, 
in  short,  — but  was  it  not  his  Christian 
duty  as  a man,  a husband,  and  a father, 
to  write  begging  letters  when  he  looked 
at  her?  (He  has  usually  remarked  that 
he  would  call  in  the  evening  for  an  an- 
swer to  this  question.) 

He  has  been  the  sport  of  the  strangest 
misfortunes.  What  his  brother  has 
done  to  him  would  have  broken  any- 
body else’s  heart.  His  brother  went 


into  business  with  him,  and  ran  away 
with  the  money  ; his  brother  got  him  to 
be  security  for  an  immense  sum,  and 
left  him  to  pay  it ; his  brother  would 
have  given  him  employment  to  the  tune 
of  hundreds  a year,  if  he  would  have 
consented  to  write  letters  on  a Sunday  ; 
his  brother  enunciated  principles  incom- 
patible with  his  religious  views,  and  he 
could  not  (in  consequence)  permit  his 
brother  to  provide  for  him.  His  land- 
lord has  never  shown  a spark  of  human 
feeling.  When  he  put  in  that  execu- 
tion I don’t  know,  but  he  has  never 
taken  it  out.  The  broker’s  man  has 
grown  gray  in  possession.  They  ■will 
have  to  bury  him  some  day. 

He  has  been  attached  to  every  con- 
ceivable pursuit.  He  has  been  in  the 
army,  in  the  navy,  in  the  church,  in  the 
law;  connected  with  the  press,  the  fine 
arts,  public  institutions,  every  descrip- 
tion and  grade  of  business.  He  has 
been  brought  up  as  a gentleman  ; he 
has  been  at  every  college  in  Oxford  and 
Cambridge ; he  can  quote  Latin  in  his 
letters  (but  generally  misspells  some 
minor  English  word)  ; he  can  tell  you 
what  Shakespeare  says  about  begging, 
better  than  you  know  it.  It  is  to  be 
observed,  that  in  the  midst  of  his  afflic- 
tions he  always  reads  the  newspapers, 
and  rounds  off  his  appeals  with  some 
allusion,  that  may  be  supposed  to  be  in 
my  way,  to  the  popular  subject  of  the 
hour. 

His  life  presents  a series  of  inconsist- 
encies. Sometimes  he  has  never  writ- 
ten such  a letter  before.  He  blushes 
with  shame.  That  is  the  first  time  ; 
that  shall- be  the  last.  Don’t  answer  it, 
and  let  it  be  understood  that,  then,  he 
will  kill  himself  quietly.  Sometimes 
(and  more  frequently)  he  has  written  a 
few  such  letters.  Then  he  encloses  the 
answers,  with  an  intimation  that  they 
are  of  inestimable  value  to  him,  and  a 
request  that  they  may  be  carefully  re- 
turned. He  is  fond  of  enclosing  some- 
thing, — verses,  letters,  pawnbrokers* 
duplicates,  anything  to  necessitate  an 
answer.  He  is  very  severe  upon  ‘ the 
pampered  minion  of  fortune  ’ who  re- 
fused him  the  half-sovereign  referred  to 
in  the  enclosure  number  two,  — but  he 
knows  me  better. 


330 


THE  BEGGING-LETTER  WRITER . 


He  writes  in  a variety  of  styles ; 
sometimes  in  low  spirits,  sometimes 
quite  jocosely.  When  he  is  in  low 
spirits,  he  writes  down-hill,  and  repeats 
words, — these  little  indications  being 
expressive  of  the  perturbation  of  his 
mind.  When  he  is  more  vivacious,  he  is 
frank  with  me,  he  is  quite  the  agreeable 
rattle.  I know  what  human  nature  is, 
— who  better?  Well  ! He  had  a little 
money  once,  and  he  ran  through  it,  — 
as  many  men  have  done  before  him. 
He  finds  his  old  friends  turn  away  from 
him  now, — many  men  have  done  that  be- 
fore him,  too  ! Shall  he  tell  me  why  he 
writes  to  me?  Because  he  has  no  kind 
of  claim  upon  me.  He  puts  it  on  that 
ground,  plainly  ; and  begs  to  ask  for  the 
loan  (as  I know  human  nature)  of  two 
sovereigns,  to  be  repaid  next  Tuesday 
six  weeks,  before  twelve  at  noon. 

Sometimes,  when  he  is  sure  that  I 
have  found  him  out,  and  that  there  is  no 
chance  of  money,  he  writes  to  inform 
me  that  I have  got  rid  of  him  at  last. 
He  has  enlisted  into  the  Company’s 
service,  and  is  off  directly,  — but  he 
wants  a cheese.  He  is  informed  by  the 
sergeant  that  it  is  essential  to  his  pros- 
pects in  the  regiment  that  he  should 
take  out  a single  Gloucester  cheese, 
weighing  from  twelve  to  fifteen  pounds. 
Eight  or  nine  shillings  would  buy  it. 
He  does  not  ask  for  money,  after  what 
has  passed  ; but  if  he  calls  at  nine  to- 
morrow morning,  may  he  hope  to  find  a 
cheese?  And  is  there  anything  he  can 
do  to  show  his  gratitude  in  Bengal  ? 

Once,  he  wrote  me  rather  a special 
letter,  proposing  relief  in  kind.  He  had 
got  into  a little  trouble  by  leaving  par- 
cels of  mud  done  up  in  brown  paper  at 
people’s  houses,  on  pretence  of  being  a 
Rail  way- Porter,  in  which  character  he 
received  carriage  money.  This  sportive 
fancy  he  expiated  in  the  House  of  Cor- 
rection. Not  long  after  his  release,  and 
on  a Sunday  morning,  he  called  with  a 
letter  (having  first  dusted  himself  all 
over),  in  which  he  gave  me  to  under- 
stand that,  being  resolved  to  earn  an 
honest  livelihood,  he  had  been  travel- 
ling about  the  country  with  a cart  of 
crockery.  That  he  had  been  doing 
pretty  well,  until  the  day  before,  when 
his  horse  had  dropped  down  dead  near 


Chatham,  in  Kent.  That  this  had  re- 
duced him  to  the  unpleasant  necessity 
of  getting  into  the  shafts  himself,  and 
drawing  the  cart  of  crockery  to  London, 
— a somewhat  exhausting  pull  of  thirty 
miles.  That  he  did  not  venture  to  ask 
again  for  money ; but  that  if  I would 
have  the  goodness  to  leave  him  out  a 
donkey , he  would  call  for  the  animal 
before  breakfast  ! 

At  another  time,  my  friend  (I  am  de- 
scribing actual  experiences)  introduced 
himself  as  a literary  gentleman  in  the 
last  extremity  of  distress.  He  had  had 
a play  accepted  at  a certain  theatre,  — 
which  was  really  open  ; its  representa- 
tion was  delayed  by  the  indisposition  of 
a leading  actor,  — who  was  really  ill ; 
and  he  and  his  were  in  a state  of  abso- 
lute starvation.  If  he  made  his  neces- 
sities known  to  the  manager  of  the 
theatre,  he  put  it  to  me  to  say  what  kind 
of  treatment  he  might  expect?  Well! 
we  got  over  that  difficulty  to  our  mutu- 
al satisfaction.  A little  while  afterwards 
he  was  in  some  other  strait,  — I think 
Mrs.  Southcote,  his  wife,  was  in  ex- 
tremity,— and  we  adjusted  that  point 
too.  A little  while  afterwards,  he  had 
taken  a new  house,  and  was  going  head- 
long to  ruin  for  want  of  a water-butt. 
I had  my  misgivings  about  the  water- 
butt,  and  did  not  reply  to  that  epistle. 
But,  a little  while  afterwards,  I had 
reason  to  feel  penitent  for  my  neglect. 
He  wrote  me  a few  broken-hearted 
lines,  informing  me  that  the  dear  part- 
ner of  his  sorrows  died  in  his  arms  last 
night  at  nine  o’clock  ! 

I despatched  a trusty  messenger  to 
comfort  the  bereaved  mourner  and  his 
poor  children  ; but  the  messenger  went 
so  soon  that  the  play  was  not  ready  to 
be  played  out ; my  friend  was  not  at 
home,  and  his  wife  was  in  a most  de- 
lightful state  of  health.  He  was  taken 
upby  the  Mendicity  Society  (informally, 
it  afterwards  appeared),  and  I presented 
myself  at  a London  police  office  with 
my  testimony  against  him.  The  mag- 
istrate was  wonderfully  struck  by  his 
educational  acquirements,  deeply  im- 
pressed by  the  excellence  of  his  letters, 
exceedingly  sorry  to  see  a man  of  his 
attainments  there,  complimented  him 
highly  on  his  powers  of  composition. 


THE  BEGGING-LETTER  WRITER. 


33i 


and  was  quite  charmed  to  have  the 
agreeable  duty  of  discharging  him.  A 
collection  was  made  for  the  “ poor  fel- 
low,” as  he  was  called  in  the  reports, 
and  I 'left  the  court  with  a comfortable 
sense  of  being  universally  regarded  as  a 
sort  of  monster.  Next  day  comes  to 
me  a friend  of  mine,  the  governor  of  a 
large  prison.  “ Why  did  you  ever  go  to 
the  police  office  against  that  man,” 
says  he,  “without  coming  to  me  first? 
I know  all  about  him  and  his  frauds. 
He  lodged  in  the  house  of  one  of  my 
warders,  at  the  very  time  when  he  first 
wrote  to  you  ; and  then  he  was  eating 
spring-lamb  at  eighteen-pence  a pound, 
and  early  asparagus  at  I don’t  know 
how  much  a bundle  ! ” On  that  very 
same  day,  and  in  that  very  same  hour, 
my  injured  gentleman  wrote  a solemn 
address  to  me,  demanding  to  know  what 
compensation  I proposed  to  make  him 
for  his  having  passed  the  night  in  a 
“ loathsome  dungeon.”  And  next  morn- 
ing, an  Irish  gentleman,  a member  of 
the  same  fraternity,  who  had  read  the 
case,  and  was  very  well  persuaded  I 
should  be  chary  of  going  to  that  police 
office  again,  positively  refused  to  leave 
my  door  for  less  than  a sovereign,  and, 
resolved  to  besiege  me  into  compliance, 
literally  “satdown”  before  it  for  ten  mor- 
tal hours.  The  garrison  being  well  pro- 
visioned, I remained  w ithin  the  walls ; 
and  he  raised  the  siege  at  midnight, 
W'ith  a prodigious  alarum  on  the  bell. 

The  Begging- Letter  Writer  often  has 
an  extensive  circle  of  acquaintance. 
Whole  pages  of  the  Court  Guide  are 
ready  to  be  references  for  him.  Noble- 
men and  gentlemen  write  to  say  there 
never  was  such  a man  for  probity  and 
virtue.  They  have  known  him,  time 
out  of  mind,  and  there  is  nothing  they 
would  n’t  do  for  him.  Somehow,  they 
don’t  give  him  that  one  pound  ten  he 
stands  in  need  of;  but  perhaps  it  is  not 
enough,  — they  wTant  to  do  more,  and 
his  modesty  will  not  allow  it.  It  is  to 
be  remarked  of  his  trade  that  it  is  a very 
fascinating  one.  He  never  leaves  it ; 
and  those  who  are  near  to  him  become 
smitten  wifh  a love  of  it,  too,  and  soon- 
er or  later  set  up  for  themselves.  He 
employs  a’messenger,  — man,  woman, 
or  child.  That  messenger  is  certain 


ultimately  to  become  an  independent 
Begging- Letter  Writer.  His  sons  and 
daughters  succeed  to  his  calling,  and 
write  begging  letters  when  he  is  no 
more.  He  throws  off  the  infection  of 
begging-letter  writing,  like  the  conta- 
gion of  disease.  What  Sydney  Smith 
so  happily  called  “ the  dangerous  luxury 
of  dishonesty  ” is  more  tempting,  and 
more  catching,  it  would  seem,  in  this 
instance,  than  in  any  other. 

He  always  belongs  to  a Correspond- 
ing Society  of  Begging-Letter  Writers. 
Any  one  who  will,  may  ascertain  this 
fact.  Give  money  to  day,  in  recogni- 
tion of  a begging  letter,  — no  matter 
how  unlike  a common  begging  letter,  — 
and  for  the  next  fortnight  you  will  have 
a rush  of  such  communications.  Stead- 
ily refuse  to  give  ; and  the  begging 
letters  become  angels’  visits,  until  the 
Society  is  from  some  cause  or  other  in 
a dull  way  of  business,  and  may  as  well 
try  you  as  anybody  else.  It  is  of  little 
use  inquiring  into  the  Begging-Letter 
Writer’s  circumstances.  He  may  be 
sometimes  accidentally  found  out,  as  in 
the  case  already  mentioned  (though 
that  was  not  the  first  inquiry  made)  ; 
but  apparent  misery  is  always  a part  of 
his  trade, ’and  real  misery  very  often  is, 
in  the  intervals  of  spring-lamb  and  early 
asparagus.  It  is  naturally  an  incident 
of  his  dissipated  and  dishonest  life. 

That  the  calling  is  a successful  one, 
and  that  large  sums  of  money  are  gained 
by  it,  must  be  evident  to  anybody  who 
reads  the  police  reports  of  such  cases. 
But  prosecutions  are  of  rare  occur- 
rence, relatively  to  the  extent  to  which 
the  trade  is  carried  on.  The  cause  of 
this  is  to  be  found  (as  no  one  knows 
better  than  the  Begging-Letter  Writer, 
for  it  is  a part  of  his  speculation)  in  the 
aversion  people  feel  to  exhibit  them- 
selves as  having  been  imposed  upon,  or 
as  having  weakly  gratified  their  con- 
sciences with  a lazy,  flimsy  substitute 
for  the  noblest  of  all  virtues.  There  is 
a man  at  large,  at  the  moment  when 
this  paper  is  preparing  for  the  press  (on 
the  29th  of  April,  1850),  and  never  once 
taken  up  yet,  who,  within  these  twelve- 
months,  has  been  probably  the  most 
audacious  and  the  most  successful 
swindler  that  even  this  trade  has  ever 


332 


THE  BEGGING-LETTER  WRITER. 


known.  There  has  been  something 
singularly  base  in  this  fellow’s  proceed- 
ings : it  has  been  his  business  to  write 
to  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  people,  in 
the  names  of  persons  of  high  reputation 
and  unblemished  honor,  professing  to 
be  in  distress,  — the  general  admiration 
and  respect  for  whom  has  insured  a 
ready  and  generous  reply. 

Now,  in  the  hope  that  the  results  of 
the  real  experience  of  a real  person  may 
do  something  more  to  induce  reflection 
on  this  subject  than  any  abstract  treatise, 
— and  with  a personal  knowledge  of 
the  extent  to  which  the  Begging-Letter 
Trade  has  been  carried  on  for  some 
time  and  has  been  for  some  time  con- 
stantly increasing,  — the  writer  of  this 
paper  entreats  the  attention  of  his  read- 
ers to  a few  concluding  words.  His  ex- 
perience is  a type  of  the  experience  of 
many ; some  on  a smaller,  some  on  an 
infinitely  larger  scale.  All  may  judge 
of  the  soundness  or  unsoundness  of  his 
conclusions  from  it. 

Long  doubtful  of  the  efficacy  of  such 
assistance  in  any  case  whatever,  and 
able  to  recall  but  one,  within  his  whole 
individual  knowledge,  in  which  he  had 
the  least  after-reason  to  suppose  that 
any  good  was  done  by  it,  he  was  led, 
last  autumn,  into  some  serious  consider- 
ations. The  begging  letters,  flying  about 
by  every  post,  made  it  perfectly  mani- 
fest, that  a set  of  lazy  vagabonds  were 
interposed  between  the  general  desire 
to  do  something  to  relieve  the  sickness 
and  misery  under  which  the  poor  were 
suffering,  and  the  suffering  poor  them- 
selves. That  many,  w’ho  sought  to  do 
some  little  to  repair  the  social  wrongs, 
inflicted  in  the  way  of  preventable  sick- 
ness and  death  upon  the  poor,  w;ere 
strengthening  those  wrongs,  however 
innocently,  by  wasting  money  on  pesti- 
lent knaves  cumbering  society.  That 
imagination,  — soberly  following  one  of 
these  knaves  into  his  life  of  punishment 
in  jail,  and  comparing  it  with  the  life  of 
one  of  these  poor  in  a cholera-stricken 
alley,  or  one  of  the  children  of  one  of 
these  poor,  soothed  in  its  dying  hour 
by  the  late  lamented  Mr.  Drouet,  — 
contemplated  a grim  farce,  impossible 
to  be  presented  very  much  longer  before 
God  or  man.  That  the  crowning  mira- 


cle of  all  the  miracles  summed  up  in 
the  New  Testament,  after  the  miracle 
of  the  blind  seeing,  and  the  lame  walk- 
ing, and  the  restoration  of  the  dead  to 
life,  was  the  miracle  that  the  po«r  had 
the  Gospel  preached  to  them.  That 
W'hiie  the  poor  wrere  unnaturally  and 
unnecessarily  cut  off  by  the  thousand, 
in  the  prematurity  of  their  age,  or  in 
the  rottenness  of  their  youth, — for  of 
flower  or  blossom  such  youth  has  none, 
— the  Gospel  w'as  not  preached  to 
them,  saving  in  hollow  and  unmeaning 
voices.  That  of  all  wrongs,  this  was 
the  first  mighty  wrong  the  Pestilence 
warned  us  to  set  right.  And  that  no 
Post-Office  Order  to  any  amount,  given 
to  a Begging- Letter  Writer  for  the 
quieting  of  an  uneasy  breast  wrould  be 
presentable  on  the  Last  Great  Day  as 
anything  towards  it. 

The  poor  never  write  these  letters. 
Nothing  could  be  more  unlike  their 
habits.  The  w'riters  are  public  robbers  ; 
and  we  who  support  them  are  parties 
to  their  depredations.  They  trade  up- 
on every  circumstance  within  their 
knowledge  that  affects  us,  public  or 
private,  joyful  or  sorrowful ; they  per- 
vert the  lessons  of  our  lives ; they 
change  what  ought  to  be  our  strength 
and  virtue  into  weakness  and  encour- 
agement of  vice.  There  is  a plain 
remedy,  and  it  is  in  our  own  hands. 
We  must  resolve,  at  any  sacrifice  of 
feeling,  to  be  deaf  to  such  appeals, 
and  crush  the  trade. 

There  are  degrees  in  murder.  Life 
must  be  held  sacred  among  us  in  more 
ways  than  one,  — sacred,  not  merely 
from  the  murderous  weapon,  or  the 
subtle  poison,  or  the  cruel  blow,  but 
sacred  from  preventable  diseases,  dis- 
tortions, and  pains.  That  is  the  first 
great  end  w'e  have  to  set  against  this 
miserable  imposition.  Physical  life  re- 
spected, moral  life  comes  next.  What 
will  not  content  a Begging- Letter 
Writer  for  a w'eek  wrould  educate  a 
score  of  children  for  a year.  Let  us 
give  all  we  can  ; let  us  give  more  than 
ever.  Let  us  do  all  we  can  ; let  us  do 
more  than  ever.  But  let  us  give,  and 
do,  with  a high  purpose ; not  to  endow 
the  scum  of  the  earth,  to  its  ctwn  greater 
corruption,  with  the  offals  of  our  duty. 


A CHILD'S  DREAM  OF  A STAR. 


333 


A CHILD'S  DREAM  OF  A STAR. 


There  was  once  a child,  and  he 
strolled  about  a good  deal,  and  thought 
of  a number  of  things.  He  had  a sister, 
who  was  a child  too,  and  his  constant 
companion.  These  two  used  to  wonder 
all  day  long.  They  wondered  at  the 
beauty  of  the  flowers;  they  wondered 
at  the  height  and  blueness  of  the  sky ; 
they  wondered  at  the  depth  of  the  bright 
water  ; they  wondered  at  the  goodness 
and  the  power  of  God  who  made  the 
lovely  world. 

They  used  to  say  to  one  another, 
sometimes,  Supposing  all  the  children 
upon  earth  were  to  die,  would  the 
flowers  and  the  water  and  the  sky  be 
sorry?  They  believed  they  would  be 
sorry.  For,  said  they,  the  buds  are  the. 
children  of  the  flowers,  and  the  little 
playful  streams  that  gambol  down  the 
hillsides  are  the  children  of  the  water  ; 
and  the  smallest  bright  specks  playing 
at  hide-and-seek  in  the  sky  all  night 
must  surely  be  the  children  of  the  stars  ; 
and  they  would  all  be  grieved  to  see 
their  playmates,  the  children  of  men, 
no  more. 

There  was  one  clear  shining  star  that 
used  to  come  out  in  the  sky  before  the 
rest,  near  the  church-spire,  above  the 
graves.  It  was  larger  and  more  beauti- 
ful, they  thought,  than  all  the  others ; 
and  every  night  they  watched  for  it, 
standing  hand-in-hand  at  a window. 
Whoever  saw  it  first,  cried  out,  “ I see 
the  star ! ” And  often  they  cried  out 
both  together,  knowing  so  well  when  it 
would  rise,  and  where.  So  they  grew  to 
be  such  friends  with  it,  that,  before  lying 
down  in  their  beds,  they  always  looked 
out  once  again  to  bid  it  good  night  ; 
and  when  they  were  turning  round  to 
sleep,  they  used  to  say,  “ God  bless  the 
star  ! ” 

But  while  she  was  still  very  young,  O 
very,  very  young,  the  sister  drooped,  and 
came  to  be  so  weak  that  she  could  no 
longer  stand  in  the  window  at  night ; 


and  then  the  child  looked  sadly  out  by 
himself,  and  when  he  saw  the  star, 
turned  round  and  said  to  the  patient 
pale  face  on  the  bed,  “ I see  the  star  ! ” 
and  then  a smile  would  come  upon 
the  face,  and  a little  weak  voice  used 
to  say,  “ God  bless  my  brother  and  the 
star ! ” 

And  so  the  time  came,  all  too  soon  ! 
when  the  child  looked  out  alone,  and, 
when  there  was  no  face  on  the  bed  ; 
and  when  there  was  a little  grave  among; 
the  graves,  not  there  before  ; and  when; 
the  star  made  long  rays  down  towards 
him,  as  he  saw  it  through  his  tears. 

Now,  these  rays  were  so  bright,  and' 
they  seemed  to  make  such  a shining 
way  from  earth  to  heaven,  that  when 
the  child  went  to  his  solitary  bed,  he 
dreamed  about  the  star ; and  dreamed 
that,  lying  where  he  was,  he  saw  a train 
of  people  taken  up  that  sparkling  road 
by  angels.  And  the  star,  opening, 
showed  him  a great  world  of  light, 
where  many  more  such  angels  waited 
to  receive  them. 

All  these  angels,  who  were  waiting, 
turned  their  beaming  eyes  upon  thq 
people  who  were  carried  up  into  the 
star  ; and  some  came  out  from  the  long 
rows  in  which  they  stood,  and  fell  upon 
the  people’s  necks,  and  kissed  them 
tenderly,  and  went  away  with  them 
down  avenues  of  light,  and  were  so 
happy  in  their  company,  that,  lying  in 
his  bed,  he  wept  for  joy. 

But  there  were  many  angels  who  did 
not  go  with  them,  and  among  them  one 
he  knew.  The  patient  face  that  once 
had  lain  upon  the  bed  was  glorified  and 
radiant,  but  his  heart  found  out  his  sis- 
ter among  all  the  host. 

His  sister’s  angel  lingered  near  the 
entrance  of  the  star,  and  said  to  the 
leader  among  those  who  had  brought 
the  people  thither,  — 

“ Is  my  brother  come  ? ” 

And  he  said,  “No.” 


334 


A CHILD'S  DREAM  OF  A STAR. 


She  was  turning  hopefully  away  when 
the  child  stretched  out  his  arms,  and 
cried,  “ O sister,  I am  here  ! Take 
me  ! ” and  then  she  turned  her  beaming 
eyes  upon  him,  and  it  was  night ; and 
the  star  was  shining  into  the  room,  mak- 
ing long  rays  down  towards  him  as  he 
saw  it  through  his  tears. 

From  that  hour  forth,  the  child  looked 
out  upon  the  star  as  on  the  home  he 
was  to  go  to,  when  his  time  should 
come ; and  he  thought  that  he  did  not 
belong  to  the  earth  alone,  but  to  the 
star  too,  because  of  his  sister’s  angel 
gone  before. 

There  was  a baby  born  to  be  a broth- 
er to  the  child  ; and  while  he  was  so  lit- 
tle that  he  never  yet  had  spoken  word, 
he  stretched  his  tiny  form  out  on  his 
bed,  and  died. 

Again  the  child  dreamed  of  the  opened 
star,  and  of  the  company  of  angels,  and 
the  train  of  people,  and  the  rows  of  an- 
gels with  their  beaming  eyes  all  turned 
upon  those  people’s  faces. 

Said  his  sister’s  angel  to  the  lead- 
er, — 

“ Is  my  brother  come  ? ” 

And  he  said,  “Not  that  one,  but  an- 
other.” 

As  the  child  beheld  his  brother’s  an- 
gel in  her  arms,  he  cried,  “O  sister,  I 
am  here  ! Take  me  ! ” And  she  turned 
and  smiled  upon  him,  and  the  star  was 
shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a young  man,  and  was 
busy  at  his. books  when  an  old  servant 
came  to  him  and  said,  — 

“ Thy  mother  is  no  more.  I bring 
her  blessing  on  her  darling  son  ! ” 

Again  at  night  he  saw  the  star,  and 
all  that  former  company.  Said  his  sis- 
ter’s angel  to  the  leader,  — 

“ Is  my  brother  come?  ” 


And  he  said,  “ Thy  mother  ! ” 

A mighty  cry  of  joy  went  forth  through 
all  the  star,  because  the  mother  was 
reunited  to  her  two  children.  And  he 
stretched  out  his  arms  and  cried,  “O 
mother,  sister,  and  brother,  I am  here  ! 
Take  me  ! ” And  they  answered  him, 
“ Not  yet,”  and  the  star  was  shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a man,  whose  hair  was 
turning  gray,  and  he  was  sitting  in  his 
chair  by  the  fireside,  heavy  with  grief, 
and  with  his  face  bedewed  with  tears, 
when  the  star  opened  once  again. 

Said  his  sister’s  angel  to  the  leader, 
“ Is  my  brother  come  ? ” 

And  he  said,  “Nay,  but  his  maiden 
daughter.” 

And  the  man  who  had  been  the  child 
saw  his  daughter,  newly  lost  to  him, 
a celestial  creature  among  those  three, 
and  he  said,  “ My  daughter’s  head  is  on 
my  sister’s  bosom,  and  her  arm  is  round 
my  mother’s  neck,  and  at  her  feet  there 
is  the  baby  of  old  time,  and  I can  bear 
the  parting  from  her,  God  be  praised  ! ” 

And  the  star  was  shining. 

Thus  the  child  came  to  be  an  old 
man,  and  his  once  smooth  face  was 
wrinkled,  and  his  steps  were  slow  and 
feeble,  and  his  back  was  bent.  And 
one  night  as  he  lay  upon  his  bed,  his 
children  standing  round,  he  cried,  as  he 
had  cried  so  long  ago,  — 

“ I see  the  star  ! ” 

They  whispered  one  another,  “He  is 
dying.” 

And  he  said,  “ I am.  My  age  is  fall- 
ing from  me  like  a garment,  and  I move 
towards  the  star  as  a child.  And  O my 
Father,  now  I thank  the^  that  it  has  so 
often  opened  to  receive  those  dear  ones 
who  await  me  ! ” 

And  the  star  was  shining ; and  it 
shines  upon  his  grave. 


OUR  ENGLISH  WATERING-PLACE. 


335 


OUR  ENGLISH  WATERING-PLACE. 


In  the  autumn-time  of  the  year, 
when  the  great  metropolis  is  so  much 
hotter,  so  much  noisier,  so  much  more 
dusty  or  so  much  more  water-carted, 
so  much  more  crowded,  so  much 
more  disturbing  and  distracting  in  all 
respects,  than  it  usually  is,  a quiet  sea- 
beach  becomes  indeed  a blessed  spot. 
Half  awake  and  half  asleep,  this  idle 
morning  in  our  sunny  window  on  the 
edge  of  a chalk  cliff  in  the  old-fash- 
ioned w'atering-place  to  which  we  are 
a faithful  resorter,  we  feel  a lazy  incli- 
nation to  sketch  its  picture. 

The  place  seems  to  respond.  Sky, 
sea,  beach,  and  village  lie  as  still  be- 
fore us  as  if  they  were  sitting  for  the 
picture.  It  is  dead  low-water.  A rip- 
ple plays  among  the  ripening  corn  upon 
the  cliff,  as  if  it  were  faintly  trying  from 
recollection  to  imitate  the  sea  ; and  the 
world  of  butterflies  hovering  over  the 
crop  of  radish-seed  are  as  restless  in 
their  little  way  as  the  gulls  are  in  their 
larger  manner  when  the  wind  blows. 
But  the  ocean  lies  winking  in  the  sun- 
light like  a drowsy  lion,  — its  glassy 
waters  scarcely  curve  upon  the  shore, 
— the  fishing-boats  in  the  tiny  harbor 
are  all  stranded  in  the  mud,  — our  two 
colliers  (our  watering-place  has  a mari- 
time trade  employing  that  amount  of 
shipping)  have  not  an  inch  of  water 
within  a quarter  of  a mile  of  them,  and 
turn,  exhausted,  on  their  sides,  like 
faint  fish  of  an  antediluvian  species. 
Rusty  cables  and  chains,  ropes  and 
rings,  undermost  parts  of  posts  and 
piles  and  confused  timber  defences 
against  the  waves,  lie  strewn  about,  in 
a brown  litter  of  tangled  sea-weed  and 
fallen  cliff,  which  looks  as  if  a family  of 
giants  had  been  making  tea  here  for 
ages,  and  had  observed  an  untidy  cus- 
tom of  throwing  their  tea-leaves  on  the 
shore. 

In  truth  our  watering-place  itself  has 
been  left  somewhat  high  and  dry  by  the 


tide  of  years.  Concerned  as  we  are  for 
its  honor,  we  must  reluctantly  admit 
that  the  time  when  this  pretty  little 
semicircular  sweep  of  houses,  tapering 
off  at  the  end  of  the  wooden  pier  into 
a point  in  the  sea,  was  a gay  place,  and 
when  the  light-house  overlooking  it 
shone  at  daybreak  on  company  dispers- 
ing from  public  balls,  is  but  dimly  tra- 
ditional now.  There  is  a bleak  cham- 
ber in  our  watering-place  which  is  yet 
called  the  Assembly  “ Rooms,”  and 
understood  to  be  available  on  hire  for 
balls  or  concerts  ; and,  some  few  sea- 
sons since,  an  ancient  little  gentleman 
came  down  and  stayed  at  the  hotel, 
who  said  he  had  danced  there,  in  by- 
gone ages,  with  the  Honorable  Miss 
Peepy,  well  known  to  have  been  the 
Beauty  of  her  day  and  the  cruel  occa- 
sion of  innumerable  duels.  But  he  was 
so  old  and  shrivelled,  and  so  very  rheu- 
matic in  the  legs,  that  it  demanded 
more  imagination  than  our  watering- 
lace  can  usually  muster,  to  believe 
im ; therefore,  except  the  master  of 
the  “ Rooms  ” (who  to  this  hour  wears 
knee-breeches,  and  who  confirmed  the 
statement  with  tears  in  his  eyes),  no- 
body did  believe  in  the  little  lame  old 
gentleman,  or  even  in  the  Honorable 
Miss  Peepy,  long  deceased. 

As  to  subscription  balls  in  the  As- 
sembly Rooms  of  our  watering-place 
now,  red-hot  cannon-balls  are  less  im- 
probable. Sometimes  a misguided 
wanderer  of  a Ventriloquist,  or  an  In- 
fant Phenomenon,  or  a Juggler,  or 
somebody  with  an  Orrery  that  is  sev- 
eral stars  behind  the  time,  takes  the 
place  for  a night,  and  issues  bills  with 
the  name  of  his  last  town  lined  out,  and 
the  name  of  ours  ignominiously  written 
in,  but  you  may  be  sure  this  never  hap- 
pens twice  to  the  same  unfortunate 
person.  On  such  occasions  the  dis- 
colored old  billiard  table  that  is  sel- 
dom played  at  (unless  the  ghost  of  the 


336 


OUR  ENGLISH  IV A TE RING-PLACE. 


Honorable  Miss  Peepy  plays  at  pool 
with  other  ghosts)  is  pushed  into  a cor- 
ner, and  benches  are  solemnly  consti- 
tuted into  front  seats,  back  seats,  and  re- 
served seats,  — which  are  much  the  same 
after  you  have  paid,  — and  a few  dull 
candles  are  lighted,  — wind  permitting, 

— and  the  performer  and  the  scanty  au- 
dience play  out  a short  match  which 
shall  make  the  other  most  low-spirited, 

— which  is  usually  a drawn  game. 
After  that,  the  performer  instantly  de- 
parts with  maledictory  expressions,  and 
is  never  heard  of  more. 

But  the  most  wonderful  feature  of 
our  Assembly  Rooms  is,  that  an  an- 
nual sale  of  “ Fancy  and  other  China  ” 
is  announced  here  with  mysterious  con- 
stancy and  perseverance.  Where  the 
china  comes  from,  where  it  goes  to, 
why  it  is  annually  put  up  to  auction 
when  nobody  ever  thinks  of  bidding  for 
it,  how  it  comes  to  pass  that  it  is  always 
the  same  china,  whether  it  would  not 
have  been  cheaper,  with  the  sea  at 
hand,  to  have  thrown  it  away,  say  in 
eighteen  hundred  and  thirty,  are  stand- 
ing enigmas.  Every  year  the  bills 
come  out,  every  year  the  master  of  the 
Rooms  gets  into  a little  pulpit  on  a 
table,  and  offers  it  for  sale,  every  year 
nobody  buys  it,  every  year  it  is  put 
away  somewhere  until  next  year,  when 
it  appears  again  as  if  the  whole  thing 
were  a new  idea.  We  have  a faint  re- 
membrance of  an  unearthly  collection 
of  clocks,  purporting  to  be  the  work  of 
Parisian  and  Genevese  artists,  — chiefly 
bilious  - faced  clocks,  supported  on 
sickly  white  crutches,  with  their  pen- 
dulums dangling  like  lame  legs,  — to 
which  a similar  course  of  events  oc- 
curred for  several  years,  until  they 
seemed  to  lapse  away,  of  mere  imbe- 
cility. 

Attached  to  our  Assembly  Rooms  is 
a library.  There  is  a wheel  of  fortune 
in  it,  but  it  is  rusty  and  dust}',  and  never 
turns.  A large  doll  with  movable 
eyes  was  put  up  to  be  raffled  for,  by 
five-and-twenty  members  at  two  shil- 
lings, seven  years  ago  this  autumn,  and 
the  list  is  not  full  yet.  We  are  rather 
sanguine,  now,  that  the  raffle  will  come 
off  next  year.  We  think  so,  because 
we  only  want  nine  members,  and  should 


only  want  eight,  but  for  number  two 
having  grown  up  since  her  name  was 
entered,  and  withdrawn  it  when  she  was 
married.  Down  the  street,  there  is  a 
toy-ship  of  considerable  burden,  in  the 
same  condition.  Two  of  the  boys  who 
were  entered  for  that  raffle  have  gone  to 
India  in  real  ships  since ; and  one  was 
shot,  and  died  in  the  arms  of  his  sis- 
ter’s lover,  by  whom  he  sent  his  last 
words  home. 

This  is  the  library  for  the  Minerva 
Press.  If  you  want  that  kind  of  read- 
ing, come  to  our  watering-place.  The 
leaves  of  the  romances,  reduced  to  a 
condition  very  like  curl  paper,  are 
thickly  studded  with  notes  in  pencil, 
sometimes  complimentary,  sometimes 
jocose.  Some  of  these  commentators, 
like  commentators  in  a more  extensive 
way,  quarrel  with  one  another.  One 
young  gentleman  who  sarcastically 
writes  “ O ! ! ! ” after  every  sentimental 
passage,  is  pursued  through  his  literary 
career  by  another,  who  writes  “ Insulting 
Beast ! ” Miss  Julia  Mills  has  read  the 
whole  collection  of  these  books.  She 
has  left  marginal  notes  on  the  pages,  as 
“Is  not  this  truly  touching?  J.  M.” 
“ How  thrilling  ! J.  M.”  “ Entranced 

here  by  the  Magician’s  potent  spell.  J. 
M.”  She  has  also  italicized  her  favorite 
traits  in  the  description  of  the  hero,  as 
“ his  hair,  which  was  dark  and  wavy , 
clustered  in  rich  profusion  around  a 
marble  brow , whose  lofty  paleness  be- 
spoke the  intellect  within.”  It  reminds 
her  of  another  hero.  She  adds,  “How 
like  B.  L.  ! Can  this  be  mere  coinci- 
dence? J.  M.” 

You  would  hardly  guess  which  is  the 
main  street  of  our  watering-place,  but 
you  may  know  it  by  its  being  always 
stopped  up  with  donkey-chaises.  When- 
ever you  come  here,  and  see  harnessed 
donkeys  eating  clover  out  of  barrows 
drawn  completely  across  a narrow 
thoroughfare,  you  may  be  quite  sure 
you  are  in  our  High  Street.  Our  po- 
lice you  may  know  by  his  uniform,  like- 
wise by  his  never  on  any  account  inter- 
fering with  anybody,  — especially  the 
tramps  and  vagabonds.  In  our  fancy 
shops  we  have  a capital  collection  of 
damaged  goods,  among  which  the  flies 
of  countless  summers  “have  been  roam- 


OUR  ENGLISH  WATERING-PLACE. 


337 


mg.”  We  are  great  in  obsolete  seals, 
and  in  faded  pincushions,  and  in  rickety 
camp-stools,  and  in  exploded  cutler)', 
and  in  miniature  vessels,  and  in  stunted 
little  telescopes,  and  in  objects  made  of 
shells  that  pretend  not  to  be  shells. 
Diminutive  spades,  barrows,  and  bas- 
kets are  our  principal  articles  of  com- 
merce ; but  even  they  don’t  look  quite 
new  somehow.  They  always  seem  to 
have  been  offered  and  refused  some- 
where else,  before  they  came  down  to 
our  watering-place. 

Yet,  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  our 
watering-place  is.  an  empty  place,  de- 
serted by  all  visitors  except  a few 
stanch  persons  of  approved  fidelity. 
On  the  contrary,  the  chances  are  that  if 
you  came  down  here  in  August  or  Sep- 
tember, you  would  n’t  find  a house  to 
lay  your  head  in.  As  to  finding  either 
house  or  lodging  of  which  you  could  re- 
duce the  terms,  you  could  scarcely  en- 
gage in  a more  hopeless  pursuit.  For 
all  this,,  you  are  to  observe  that  every 
season  is  the  worst  season  ever  known, 
and  that  the  householding  population  of 
our  watering-place  are  ruined  regularly 
every  autumn.  They  are  like  the  farm- 
ers, in  regard  that  it  is  surprising  how 
much  ruin  they  will  bear.  We  have  an 
excellent  hotel, — capital  baths,  warm, 
cold,  and  shower,  — first-rate  bathing- 
machines,  — and  as  good  butchers,  ba- 
kers, and  grocers,  as  heart,  could  desire. 
They  all  do  business,  it  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed, from  motives  of  philanthropy, 
— but  it  is  quite  certain  that  they  are 
all  being  ruined.  Their  interest  in  stran- 
gers, and  their  politeness  under  ruin,  be- 
speak their  amiable  nature.  You  would 
say  so,  if  you  only  saw  the  baker  help*- 
ing  a new-comer  to  find  suitable  apart- 
ments. 

So  far  from  being  at  a discount  as  to 
company,  we  are  jn  fact  what  would  be 
opularly  called  rather  a nobby  place, 
ome  tip-top  “ Nobbs”  come  down  oc- 
casionally, — - even  Dukes  and  Duch- 
esses. We  have  known  such  carriages 
to  blaze  among  the  donkey-chaises  as 
made  beholders  wink.  Attendant  on 
these  equipages  come  resplendent  crea- 
tures in  plush  and  powder,  who  are  sure 
to  be  stricken  disgusted  with  the  indif- 
ferent accommodation  of  our  watering- 


place,  and  who,  of  an  evening  (particu- 
larly when  it  rains)  may  be  seen  very 
much  out  of  drawing,  in  rooms  far  too 
small  for  their  fine  figures,  looking  dis- 
contentedly out  of  little  back  windows 
into  by-streets.  The  lords  and  ladies 
get  on  well  enough  and  quite  good-hu- 
moredly ; but  if  you  want  to  see  the 
gorgeous  phenomena  who  wait  upon 
them  at  a perfect  non-plus,  you  should 
come  and  look  at  the  resplendent  crea- 
tures with  little  back  parlors  for  ser- 
vants’ halls,  and  turn-up  bedsteads  to 
sleep  in,  at  our  watering-place.  You 
have  no  idea  how  they  take  it  to  heart. 

We  have  a pier,  — a queer  old  wood- 
en pier,  fortunately  without  the  slightest 
pretensions  to  architecture,  and  very 
picturesque  in  consequence.  Boats  are 
hauled  up  upon  it,  ropes  are  coiled  all 
over  it ; lobster-pots,  nets,  masts,  oars, 
spars,  sails,  ballast,  and  rickety  cap- 
stans make  a perfect  labyrinth  of  it. 
Forever  hovering  about  this  pier,  with 
their  hands  in  their  pockets,  or  leaning 
over  the  rough  bulwark  it  opposes  to 
the  sea,  gazing  through  telescopes  which 
they  carry  about  in  the  same  profound 
receptacles,  are  the  boatmen  of  our  wa- 
tering-place. Lookingatthem,  you  would 
say  that  surely  these  must  be  the  laziest 
boatmen  in  the  world.  They  lounge 
about,  in  obstinate  and  inflexible  panta- 
loons that  are  apparently  made  of  wood, 
the  whole  season  through.  Whether 
talking  together  about  the  shipping  in 
the  Channel,  or  gruffly  unbending  over 
mugs  of  beer  at  the  public-house,  you 
would  consider  them  the  slowest  of  men. 
The  chances  are  a thousand  to  one  that 
you  might  stay  here  for  ten  seasons, 
and  never  see  a boatman  in  a hurry. 
A certain  expression  about  his  loose 
hands,  when  they  are  not  in  his  pock- 
ets, as  if  he  were  carrying  a considera- 
ble lump  of  iron  in  each,  without  any 
inconvenience,  suggests  strength,  but 
he  never  seems  to  use  it.  He  has  the 
appearance  of . perpetually  strolling  — 
running  is  too  inappropriate  a word  to 
be  thought  of — to  seed.  The  only 
subject  on  which  he  seems  to  feel  any 
approach  to  enthusiasm  is  pitch.  He 
pitches  everything  he  can  lay  hold  of, 
— the  pier,  the  palings,  his  boat,  his 
house,  — when  there  is  nothing  else  left, 


22 


338 


OUR  ENGLISH  WATERING-PLACE . 


he  turns  to  and  even  pitches  his  hat,  or 
his  rough-weather  clothing.  Do  not 
judge  him  by  deceitful  appearances. 
These  are  among  the  bravest  and  most 
skilful  mariners  that  exist.  Let  a gale 
arise  and  swell  into  a storm,  let  a sea 
run  that  might  appall  the  stoutest  heart 
that  ever  beat,  let  the  Light-boat  on 
these  dangerous  sands  throw  up  a rock- 
et in  the  night,  or  let  them  hear  through 
the  angry  roar  the  signal-guns  of  a ship 
in  distress,  and  these  men  spring  up  in- 
to activity  so  dauntless,  so  valiant  and 
heroic,  that  the  world  cannot  surpass  it. 
Cavillers  may  object  that  they  chiefly 
live  upon  the  salvage  of  valuable  car- 
goes. So  they  do,  and  God  knows  it  is 
no  great  living  that  they  get  out  of  the 
deadly  risks  they  run.  But  put  that 
hope  of  gain  aside.  Let  these  rough 
fellows  be  asked,  in  any  storm,  who 
volunteers  for  the  life-boat  to  save  some 
perishing  souls,  as  poor  and  empty- 
handed  as  themselves,  whose  lives  the 
perfection  of  human  reason  does  not 
rate  at  the  value  of  a farthing  each  ; and 
that  boat  will  be  manned,  as  surely  and 
as  cheerfully  as  if  a thousand  pounds 
were  told  down  on  the  weather-beaten 
pier.  For  this,  and  for  the  recollection 
of  their  comrades  whom  we  have 
known,  whom  the  raging  sea  has  en- 
gulfed before  their  children’s  eyes  in 
such  brave  efforts,  whom  the  secret 
sand  has  buried,  we  hold  the  boatmen 
of  our  watering-place  in  our  love  and 
honor,  and  are  tender  of  the  fame  they 
well  deserve. 

So  many  children  are  brought  down 
to  our  watering-place,  that,  when  they 
are  not  out  of  doors,  as  they  usually  are 
in  fine  weather,  it  is  wonderful  where 
they  are  put, — the  whole  village  seem- 
ing much  too  small  to  hold  them  under 
cover.  In  the  afternoons,  you  see  no 
end  of  salt  and  sandy  little  boots  drying 
on  upper  window-sills.  At  bathing- 
time in  the  morning,  the  little  bay  re- 
echoes with  every  shrill  variety  of 
shriek  and  splash,  — after  which,  if  the 
weather  be  at  all  fresh,  the  sands  teem 
with  small  blup  mottled  legs.  The 
sands  are  the  children’s  great  resort. 
They  fluster  there,  like  ants,  so  busy 
burying  their  particular  friends,  and 
makipg  castles  with  infinite  labor  which 


the  next  tide  overthrows,  that  it  is  curi- 
ous to  consider  how  their  play,  to  the 
music  of  the  sea,  foreshadows  the  reali- 
ties of  their  after  lives. 

It  is  curious,  too,  to  observe  a natural 
ease  of  approach  that  there  seems  to  be 
between  the  children  and  the  boatmen. 
They  mutually  make  acquaintance,  and 
take  individual  likings,  without  any  help. 
You  will  come  upon  one  of  those  slow 
heavy  fellows  sitting  down  patiently 
mending  a little  ship  for  a mite  of  a 
boy,  whom  he  could  crush  to  death  by 
throwing  his  lightest  pair  of  trousers 
on  him.  You  will  be  sensible  of  the 
oddest  contrast  between  the  smooth  lit- 
tle creature  and  the  rough  man  who 
seems  to  be  carved  out  of  hard-grained 
wood,  — between  the  delicate  hand,  ex- 
pectantly held  out,  and  the  immense 
thumb  and  finger  that  can  hardly  feel 
the  rigging  of  thread  they  mend,  — be- 
tween the  small  voice  and  the  gruff 
growl,  — and  yet  there  is  a natural  pro- 
priety in  the  companionship,  always  to 
be  noted  in  confidence  between  a child 
and  a person  who  has  any  merit  of  reali- 
ty and  genuineness,  which  is  admirably 
pleasant. 

We  have  a preventive  station  at  our 
watering-place,  and  much  the  same 
thing  may  be  observed  — in  a lesser 
degree,  because  of  their  official  charac- 
ter — of  the  coast  blockade  ; a steady, 
trusty,  well-conditioned,  well-conducted 
set  of  men,  with  no  misgiving  about  look- 
ing you  full  in  the  face,  and  with  a quiet 
thoroughgoing  way  of  passing  along  to 
their  duty  at  night,  carrying  huge  sou’- 
wester clothing  in  reserve,  that  is  fraught 
with  all  good  prepossession.  They  are 
handy  fellows,  — neat  about  their  houses, 
— industrious  at  gardening,  — would  get 
on  with  their  wives,  one  thinks,  in  a des- 
ert island,  — and  people  it,  too,  soon. 

As  to  the  naval  officer  of  the  station, 
with  his  hearty  fresh  face,  and  his  blue 
eye  that  has  pierced  all  kinds  of  weath- 
er, it  warms  our  hearts  when  he  comes 
into  church  on  a Sunday,  with  that 
bright  mixture  of  blue  coat,  buff  waist- 
coat, black  neckerchief,  and  gold  epau- 
lette, that  is  associated  in  the  minds 
of  all  Englishmen  with  brave,  unpre- 
tending, cordial,  national  service.  We 
like  to  look  at  him  in  his  Sunday 


OUR  ENGLISH  WATERING-PLACE . 


339 


state;  and  if  we  were  First  Lord 
(really  possessing  the  indispensable 
qualification  for  the  office  of  knowing 
nothing  whatever  about  the  sea),  we 
would  give  him  a ship  to-morrow. 

We  have  a church,  by  the  by,  of 
course,  — a hideous  temple  of  flint,  like 
a petrified  haystack.  Our  chief  clerical 
dignitary,  who,  to  his  honor,  has  done 
much  for  education  both  in  time  and 
money,  and  has  established  excellent 
schools,  is  a sound,  shrewd,  healthy 
gentleman,  who  has  t*ot  into  little  oc- 
casional difficulties  with  the  neighbor- 
ing farmers,  but  has  had  a pestilent 
trick  of  being  right.  Under  a new 
regulation,  he  has  yielded  the  church 
of  our  watering-place  to  another  cler- 
gyman. Upon  the  whole,  we  get  on 
in  church  well.  We  are  a little  bil- 
ious sometimes,  about  these  days  of 
fraternization,  and  about  nations  arriv- 
ing at  a new  and  more  unprejudiced 
knowledge  of  each  other  (which  our 
Christianity  don’t  quite  approve),  but 
it  soon  goes  off,  and  then  we  get  on 
very  well. 

There  are  two  dissenting  chapels,  be- 
sides, in  our  small  watering-place ; be- 
ing in  about  the  proportion  of  a hundred 
and  twenty  guns  to  a yacht.  But  the 
dissension  that  has  torn  us  lately  has 
not  been  a religious  one.  It  has  arisen 
on  the  novel  question  of  Gas.  Our  wa- 
tering-place has  been  convulsed  by  the 
agitation,  Gas  or  No  Gas.  It  was  nev- 
er reasoned  why  No  Gas,  but  there  was 
a great  No  Gas  party.  Broadsides  were 
printed  and  stuck  about, — a startling  cir- 
cumstance in  our  watering-place.  The 
No  Gas  party  rested  content  with  chalk- 
ing, “No  Gas!”  and  “Down  with 
Gas  ! ” and  other  such  angry  war- 
whoops,  on  the  few  back  gates  and 
scraps  of  wall  which  the  limits  of  our 
watering-place  afford ; but  the  Gas  par- 
ty printed  and  posted  bills,  wherein 
they  took  the  high  ground  of  pro- 
claiming against  the  No  Gas  party, 
that  it  was  said.  Let  there  be  light  and 
there  was  light ; and  that  not  to  have 
light  (that  is  gas-light)  in  our  water- 
ing-place was  to  contravene  the  great 
decree.  Whether  by  these  thunder- 
bolts or  not,  the  No  Gas  party  were 
defeated ; and  in  this  present  season 


we  have  had  our  handful  of  shops  il- 
luminated for  the  first  time.  Such  of 
the  No  Gas  party,  however,  as  have 
got  shops,  remain  in  opposition  and 
burn  tallow,  — exhibiting  in  their  win- 
dows the  very  picture  of  the  sulkiness 
that  punishes  itself,  and  a new  illus- 
tration of  the  old  adage  about  cutting 
off  your  nose  to  be  revenged  on  your 
face,  in  cutting  off  their  gas  to  be  re- 
venged on  their  business. 

Other  population  than  we  have  in- 
dicated, our  watering-place  has  none. 
There  are  a few  old  used-up  boatmen 
who  creep  about  in  the  sunlight  with 
the  help  of  sticks,  and  there  is  a poor 
imbecile  shoemaker  who  wanders  his 
lonely  life  away  among  the  rocks,  as  if 
he  were  looking  for  his  reason,  — which 
he  will  never  find.  Sojourners  in  neigh- 
boring watering-places  come  occasional- 
ly in  flys  to  stare  at  us,  and  drive  away 
again  as  if  they  thought  us  very  dull ; 
Italian  boys  come,  Punch  comes,  the 
Fantoccini  come,  the  Tumblers  come, 
the  Ethiopians  come ; Glee-singers 
come  at  night,  and  hum  and  vibrate 
(not  always  melodiously)  under  our 
windows.  But  they  all  go  soon,  and 
leave  us  to  ourselves  again.  We 
once  had  a travelling  Circus  and 
WombwelPs  Menagerie  at  the  same 
time.  They  both  know  better  than 
ever  to  try  it  again  ; and  the  menage- 
rie had  nearly  razed  us  from  the  face 
of  the  earth  in  getting  the  elephant 
away,  — his  caravan  was  so  large,  and 
the  watering-place  so  small.  We  have 
a fine  sea,  wholesome  for  all  people  ; 
profitable  for  the  body,  profitable  for 
the  mind.  The  poet’s  words  are 
sometimes  on  its  awful  lips:  — 

“ And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O for  the  touch  of  a vanished  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a voice  that  is  still  1 
“ Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O sea  ! 

But  the  tender  grace  of  a day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me.” 

Yet  it  is  not  always  so,  for  the  speech 
of  the  sea  is  various,  and  wants  not 
abundant  resource  of  cheerfulness,  hope, 
and  lusty  encouragement.  And  since  I 
have  been  idling  at  the  window'  here, 
the  tide  has  risen.  The  boats  are  dan- 


340 


OUR  FRENCH  WATERING-PLACE. 


cing  on  the  bubbling  water ; the  colliers 
are  afloat  again ; the  white-bordered 
waves  rush  in  ; the  children 
“Dochasethe  ebbingNeptune,anddo  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back”  ; 


the  radiant  sails  are  gliding  past  tha 
shore,  and  shining  on  the  far  horizon ; 
all  the  sea  is  sparkling,  heaving,  swell- 
ing up  with  life  and  beauty,  this  bright 
morning. 


OUR  FRENCH  WATERING-PLACE. 


Having  earned,  by  many  years  of 
fidelity,  the  right  to  be  sometimes  in- 
constant to  our  English  watering-place, 
we  have  dallied  for  two  or  three  seasons 
with  a French  watering-place,  once 
solely  known  to  us  as  a town  with  a 
very  long  street,  beginning  with  an 
abattoir  and  ending  with  a steamboat, 
which  it  seemed  our  fate  to  behold  only 
at  daybreak  on  winter  mornings,  when 
(in  the  days  before  continental  rail- 
roads), just  sufficiently  awake  to  know 
that  we  were  most  uncomfortably  asleep, 
it  was  our  destiny  always  to  clatter 
through  it,  in  the  coupe  of  the  diligence 
from  Paris,  with  a sea  of  mud  behind 
us,  and  a sea  of  tumbling  waves  before. 
In  relation  to  which  latter  monster,  our 
mind’s  eye  now  recalls  a worthy  French- 
man in  a seal-skin  cap  with  a braided 
hood  over  it,  once  our  travelling  com- 
panion in  the  coupe  aforesaid,  who, 
waking  up  with  a pale  and  crumpled 
visage,  and  looking  ruefully  out  at  the 
grim  row  of  breakers  enjoying  them- 
selves fanatically  on  an  instrument  of 
torture  called  “the  Bar,”  inquired  of 
us  whether  we  were  ever  sick  at  sea? 
Both  to  prepare  his  mind  for  the  abject 
creature  we  were  presently  to  become, 
and  also  to  afford  him  consolation,  we 
replied,  “ Sir,  your  servant  is  always 
sick  when  it  is  possible  to  be  so.”  He 
returned,  altogether  uncheered  by  the 
bright  example,  “Ah,  Heaven,  but  I 
am  always  sick,  even  when  it  is  impos- 
sible to  be  so.” 

The  means  of  communication  be- 
tween the  French  capital  and  our 
French  watering-place  are  wholly 


changed  since  those  days  ; but  the 
Channel  remains  unbridged  as  yet,  and 
the  old  floundering  and  knocking  about 
go  on  there.  It  must  be  confessed  that, 
saving  in  reasonable  (and  therefore 
rare)  sea-weather,  the  act  of  arrival  at 
our  French  watering-place  from  Eng- 
land is  difficult  to  be  achieved  with  dig- 
nity. Several  little  circumstances  com- 
bine to  render  the  visitor  an  object  of 
humiliation.  In  the  first  place,  the 
steamer  no  sooner  touches  the  port 
than  all  the  passengers  fall  into  captivi- 
ty ; being  boarded  by  an  overpowering 
force  of  custom-houge  officers,  and 
marched  into  a gloomy  dungeon.  In 
the  second  place,  the  road  to  this  dun- 
geon is  fenced  off  with  ropes  breast- 
high,  and  outside  those  ropes  all  the 
English  in  the  place  who  have  lately 
been  sea-sick  and  are  now  well,  assem- 
ble in  their  best  clothes  to  enjoy  the 
degradation  of  their  dilapidated  fellow- 
creatures.  “ O,  my  gracious  ! how  ill 
this  one  has  been  ! ” “ Here  ’s  a damp 
one  coming  next  ! ” Here ’s  a pale 
one  ! ” “ Oh  ! Ain ’t  he  green  in  the 

face,  this  next  one  ! ” Even  we  ourself 
(not  deficient  in  natural  dignity)  have 
a lively  remembrance  of  staggering  up 
this  detested  lane  one  September  day 
in  a gale  of  wind,  when  we  were  re- 
ceived like  an  irresistible  comic  actor, 
with  a burst  of  laughter  and  applause, 
occasioned  by  the  extreme  imbecility  of 
our  legs. 

We  were  coming  to  the  third  place. 
In  the  third  place  the  captives,  being 
shut  up  in  the  gloomy  dungeon,  a/e 
strained,  two  or  three  at  a time,  into  as 


OUR  FRENCH  WA  TE RING-PLACE. 


34i 


inner  cell,  to  be  examined  3s  to  pass- 
ports ^and  across  the  doorway  of  com- 
munication stands  a military  creature 
making  a bar  of  his  arm.  Two  ideas  are 
generallypresent  to  the  British  mind  dur- 
ing these  ceremonies  : first,  that  it  js  ne- 
cessary to  make  for  the  cell  with  violent 
struggles,  as  if  it  were  a life-boat  and  the 
dungeon  a ship  going  down  ; secondly, 
that  the  military  creature’s  arm  is  a na- 
tional affront,  which  the  government  at 
home  ought  instantly  to  “take  up.”  The 
British  mind  and  body  becoming  heated 
by  these  fantasies,  delirious  answers 
are  made  to  inquiries,  and  extravagant 
actions  performed.  Thus,  Johnson  per- 
sists in  giving  Johnson  as  his  baptismal 
name,  and  substituting  for  his  ances- 
tral designation  the  national  “Dam!” 
Neither  can  he  by  any  means  be 
brought  to  recognize  the  distinction  be- 
tween a portmanteau -key  and  a pass- 
port, but  will  obstinately  persevere  in 
tendering  the  one  when  asked  for  the 
other.  This  brings  him  to  the  fourth 
place  in  a state  of  mere  idiocy ; and 
when  he  is,  in  the  fourth  place,  cast  out 
at  a little  door  into  a howling  wilder- 
ness of  touters,  he  becomes  a lunatic 
with  wild  eyes  and  floating  hair  until 
rescued  and  soothed.  If  friendless  and 
unrescued,  he  is  generally  put  into  a 
railway  omnibus  and  taken  to  Paris. 

But  our  French  watering-place,  when 
it  is  once  got  into,  is  a very  enjoyable 
place.  It  has  a varied  and  beautiful 
country  around  it,  aud  many  character- 
istic and  agreeable  things  within  it. 
To  be  sure,  it  might  have  fewer  bad 
smells  and  less  decaying  refuse,  and  it 
might  be  better  drained,  and  much 
cleaner  in  many  parts,  and  therefore 
infinitely  more  healthy.  Still,  it  is  a 
bright , airy,  pleasant,  cheerful  town  ; 
and  if  you  were  to  walk  down  either  of 
its  three  well-paved  main  streets,  to- 
wards five  o’clock  in  the  afternoon, 
when  delicate  odors  of  cookery  fill  the 
air,  and  its  hotel  windows  (it  is  full  of 
hotels)  give  glimpses  of  long  tables  set 
out  for  dinner,  and  made  to  look  sump- 
tuous by  the  aid  of  napkins  folded  fan- 
wise,  you  would  rightly  judge  it  to  be 
an  uncommonly  good  town  to  eat  and 
drink  in. 

We  have  an  old  walled  town,  rich  in 


cool  public  wells  of  water,  on  the  top  of 
a hill  within  and  above  the  present 
business-town  ; and  if  it  were  some 
hundreds  of  miles  farther  from  England, 
instead  of  being,  on  a clear  day,  within 
sight  of  the  grass  growing  in  the  crev- 
ices of  the  chalk-cliffs  of  Dover,  you 
would  long  ago  have  been  bored  to 
death  about  that  town.  It  is  more  pic- 
turesque and  quaint  than  half  the  inno- 
cent places  which  tourists,  following 
their  leader  like  sheep,  have  made  im- 
postors of.  To  say  nothing  of  its  houses 
with  grave  courtyards,  its  queer  by-cor- 
ners, and  its  many-windowed  streets, 
white  and  quiet  in  the  sunlight,  there  is 
an  ancient  belfry  in  it  that  would  have 
been  in  all  the  annuals  and  albums, 
going  and  gone,  these  hundred  years,  if 
it  had  but  been  more  expensive  to  get 
at.  Happily  it  has  escaped  so  well,  be- 
ing only  in  our  French  watering-place, 
that  you  may  like  it  of  your  own  accord 
in  a natural  manner,  without  being  re- 
quired to  go  into  convulsions  about  it. 
We  regard  it  as  one  of  the  later  bless- 
ings of  our  life,  that  Bilkins,  the  only 
authority  on  Taste,  never  took  any  no- 
tice, that  we  can  find  out,  of  our  French 
watering-place.  Bilkins  never  wrote 
about  it,  never  pointed  out  anything  to 
be  seen  in  it,  never  measured  anything 
in  it,  always  left  it  alone.  For  which 
relief,  Heaven  bless  the  town  and  the 
memory  of  the  immortal  Bilkins  like- 
wise ! 

There  is  a charming  walk,  arched  and 
shaded  by  trees,  on  the  old  walls  that 
form  the  four  sides  of  this  High  Town, 
whence  you  get  glimpses  of  the  streets 
below,  and  changing  views  of  the  other 
town  and  of  the  river,  and  of  the  hills 
and  of  the  sea.  It  is  made  more  agree- 
able and  peculiar  by  some  of  the  solemn 
houses  that  are  rooted  in  the  deep 
streets  below,  bursting  into  a fresher 
existence  atop,  and  having  doors  and 
windows,  and  even  gardens,  on  these 
ramparts.  A child  going  in  at  the 
courtyard  gate  of  one  of  these  houses, 
climbing  up  the  many  stairs,  and  coming 
out  at  the  fourth-floor  window,  might 
conceive  himself  another  Jack,  alight- 
ing on  enchanted  ground  from  another 
bean-stalk.  It  is  a place  wonderfully 
populous  in  children,  — English  chil- 


342 


OUR  FRENCH  WA  TE RING-PLACE. 


dren,  with  governesses  reading  novels 
as  they  walk  down  the  shady  lanes  of 
trees,  or  nursemaids  interchanging  gos- 
sip on  the  seats  ; French  children  with 
their  smiling  bonnes  in  snow-white 
caps,  and  themselves  — if  little  boys  — 
in  straw  head-gear  like  beehives,  work- 
baskets  and  church  hassocks.  Three 
years  ago,  there  were  three  weazen  old 
men,  one  bearing  a frayed  red  ribbon 
in  his  threadbare  button-hole,  always  to 
be  found  walking  together  among  these 
children,  before  dinner-time.  If  they 
walked  for  an  appetite,  they  doubtless 
lived  en  pension, — were  contracted  for, 
— otherwise  their  poverty  would  have 
made  it  a rash  action.  They  were  stoop- 
ing, blear-eyed,  dull  old  men,  slipshod 
and  shabby,  in  long-skirted  short-waist- 
ed  coats  and  meagre  trousers,  and  yet 
with  a ghost  of  gentility  hovering  in 
their  company.  They  spoke  little  to 
each  other,  and  looked  as  if  they  might 
have  been  politically  discontented  if 
they  had  had  vitality  enough.  Once, 
we  overheard  red-ribbon  feebly  com- 
plain to  the  other  two  that  somebody, 
or  something,  was  “a  Robber”;  and 
then  they  all  three  set  their  mouths  so 
that  they  would  have  ground  their  teeth 
if  they  had  had  any.  The  ensuing  win- 
ter gathered  red-ribbon  unto  the  great 
company  of  faded  ribbons,  and  next 
year  the  remaining  two  were  there,  — 
getting  themselves  entangled  with  hoops 
and  dolls,  — familiar  mysteries  to  the 
children,  — probably  in  the  eyes  of  most 
of  them,  harmless  creatures  who  had 
never  been  like  children,  and  whom 
children  could  never  be  like.  Another 
winter  came,  and  another  old  man  went, 
and  so,  this  present  year,  the  last  of  the 
triumvirate  left  off  walking,  — it  was  no 
good,  now,  — and  sat  by  himself  on  a 
little  solitary  bench,  with  the  hoops  and 
the  dolls  as  lively  as  ever  all  about 
him. 

In  the  Place  d’Armes  of  this  town  a 
little  decayed  market  is  held,  which 
seems  to  slip  through  the  old  gateway 
like  w-ater,  and  go  rippling  down  the 
hill,  to  mingle  with  the  murmuring 
market  in  the  lower  town,  and  get  lost 
in  its  movement  and  bustle.  It  is  very 
agreeable  on  an  idle  summer  morning 
to  pursue  this  market-stream  from  the 


hill-top.  It  begins  dozingly  and  dully, 
with  a few  sacks'  of  corn  : starts.into  a 
surprising  collection  of  boots  and  shoes ; 
goes  brawling  down  the  hill  in  a diver- 
sified channel  of  old  cordage,  old  iron, 
old  crockery,  old  clothes  civil  and  mili- 
tary, old  rags,  new  cotton  goods,  flaming 
prints  of  saints,  little  looking-glasses, 
and  incalculable  lengths  of  tape  ; dives 
into  a backway,  keeping  out  of  sight  for 
a little  while,  as  streams  will,  or  only 
sparkling  for  a moment  in  the  shape  of 
a market  drinking-shop,  and  suddenly 
reappears  behind  the  great  church, 
shooting  itself  into  a bright  confusion  of 
white-capped  women  and  blue-bloused 
men,  poultry,  vegetables,  fruits,  flow- 
ers, pots,  pans,  praying-chairs,  soldiers, 
country  butter,  umbrellas  and  other 
sun-shades,  girl  porters  waiting  to  be 
hired,  with  baskets  at  their  backs, 
and  one  weazen  little'  old  man  in  a 
cocked  hat,  wearing  a cuirass  of  drink- 
ing-glasses and  carrying  on  his  shoulder 
a crimson  temple  fluttering  with  flags, 
like  a glorified  pavior’s  rammer  without 
the  handle,  who  rings  a little  bell  in  all 
parts  of  the  scene,  and  cries  his  cooling 
drink  Hola,  Hola,  Ho-o-o ! in  a shrill 
cracked  voice  that  ^bmehow  makes  it- 
self heard,  above  all  the  chaffering  and 
vending  hum.  Early  in  the  afternoon, 
the  whole  course  of  the  stream  is  dry. 
The  praying-chairs  are  put  back  in  the 
church,  the  umbrellas  are  folded  up, 
the  unsold  goods  are  carried  away,  the 
stalls  and  stands  disappear,  the  square 
is  swept,  the  hackney-coaches  lounge 
there  to  be  hired,  and  on  all  the  country 
roads  (if  you  walk  about  as  much  as  we 
do)  you  will  see  the  peasant  women, 
always  neatly  and  comfortably  dressed, 
riding  home,  with  the  pleasantest  sad- 
dle-furniture of  clean  milk-pails,  bright 
butter-kegs,  and  the  like,  on  the  jolliest 
little  donkeys  in  the  world. 

We  have  another  market  in  our 
French  watering-place,  — that  is  to 
say,  a few  wooden  hutches  in  the  open 
street,  down  by  the  Port,  — devoted  to 
fish.  Our  fishing-boats  are  famous 
everywhere ; and  our  fishing  people, 
though  they  love  lively  colors  and  taste 
is  neutral  (see  Bilkins),  are  among  the 
most  picturesque  people  we  ever  en- 
countered. They  have  not  only  a 


OUR  FRENCH  WATERING-PLACE. 


343 


quarter  of  their  own  in  the  town  itself, 
but  they  occupy  whole  villages  of  their 
own  on  the  neighboring  cliffs.  Their 
chu  ches  and  chapels  are  their  own ; 
they  consort  with  one  another,  they  in- 
termarry among  themselves,  their  cus- 
toms are  their  own,  and  their  costume 
is  their  own  and  never  changes.  As 
soon  as  one  of  their  boys  can  walk,  he 
is  provided  with  a long  bright  red 
nightcap ; and  one  of  their  men  would 
as  soon  think  of  going  afloat  without  his 
head,  as  without  that  indispensable 
appendage  to  it.  Then,  they  wear  the 
noblest  boots,  with  the  hugest  tops,  — 
flapping  and  bulging  over  any  how ; 
above  which  they  encase  themselves  in 
such  wonderful  overalls  and  petticoat 
trousers,  made  to  all  appearance  of 
tarry  old  sails,  so  additionally  stiffened 
with  pitch  and  salt,  that  the  wearers 
have  a walk  of  their  own,  and  go  strad- 
dling and  swinging  about,  among  the 
boats  and  barrels  and  nets  and  rigging, 
a sight  to  see.  Then,  their  younger 
women,  by  dint  of  going  down  to  the 
sea  barefoot,  to  fling  their  baskets  into 
the  boats  as  they  come  in  with  the  tide 
and  bespeak  the  first-fruits  of  the  haul 
with  propitiatory  promises  to  love  and 
marry  that  dear  fisherman  who  shall 
fill  that  basket  like  an  Angel,  have  the 
finest  legs  ever  carved  by  Nature  in  the 
brightest  Mahogany,  and  they  walk 
like  Juno.  Their  eyes,  too,  are  so  lus- 
trous that  their  long  gold  ear-rings  turn 
dull  beside  those  brilliant  neighbors ; 
and  when  they  are  dressed,  what  with 
these  beauties,  and  their  fine  fresh  faces, 
and  their  many  petticoats,  — striped  pet- 
ticoats, red  petticoats,  blue  petticoats, 
always  clean  and  smart,  and  never 
too  long,  — and  their  home-made  stock- 
ings, mulberry- colored,  blue,  brown, 
purple,  lilac,  — which  the  older  wo- 
men, taking  care  of  the  Dutch-looking 
children,  sit  in  all  sorts  of  places  knit- 
ting, knitting,  knitting,  from  morning 
to  night, — and  what  with  their  little 
saucy  bright  blue  jackets,  knitted  too, 
and  fitting  close  to  their  handsome  fig- 
ures ; and  what  with  the  natural  grace 
with  which  they  wear  the  commonest 
cap,  or  fold  the  commonest  handker- 
chief round  their  luxuriant  hair, — we 
say,  in  a word  and  out  of  breath,  that  tak- 


ing all  these  premises  into  our  considera- 
tion, it  has  never  been  a matter  of  the 
least  surprise  to  us  that  we  have  never 
once  met,  in  the  corn-fields,  on  the  dus- 
ty roads,  by  the  breezy  windmills,  on  the 
plots  of  short  sweet  grass  overhanging 
the  sea,  — anywhere,  — a young  fisher- 
man and  fisherwoman  of  our  French 
watering-place  together,  but  the  arm  of 
that  fisherman  has  invariably  been,  as  a 
matter  of  course  and  without  any  absurd 
attempt  to  disguise  so  plain  a necessity, 
round  the  neck  or  waist  of  that  fisher- 
woman. And  we  have  had  no  doubt 
whatever,  standing  looking  at  their  up- 
hill streets,  house  rising  above  house, 
and  terrace  above  terrace,  and  bright 
garments  here  and  there  lying  sunning 
on  rough  stone  parapets,  that  the  pleas- 
ant mist  on  all  such  objects,  caused  by 
their  being  seen  through  the  brown 
nets  hung  across  on  poles  to  dry,  is,  in 
the  eyes  of  every  true  young  fisherman, 
a mist  of  love  and  beauty,  setting  off 
the  goddess  of  his  heart. 

Moreover  it  is  to  be  observed  that 
these  are  an  industrious  people,  and  a 
domestic  people,  and  an  honest  people. 
And  though  we  are  aware  that  at  the 
bidding  of  Bilkins  it  is  our  duty  to  fall 
down  and  worship  the  Neapolitans,  we 
make  bold  very  much  to  prefer  the  fish- 
ing people  of  our  French  watering-place, 
— especially  since  our  last  visit  to  Na- 
ples within  these  twelvemonths,  when 
we  found  only  four  conditions  of  men 
remaining  in  the  whole  city,  to  wit, 
lazzaroni,  priests,  spies,  and  soldiers, 
and  all  of  them  beggars  ; the  paternal 
government  having  banished  all  its  sub- 
jects except  the  rascals. 

But  we  can  never  henceforth  sep- 
arate our  French  watering-place  from 
our  own  landlord  of  two  summers,  M. 
Loyal  Devasseur,  citizen  and  town 
councillor.  Permit  us  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  presenting  M.  Loyal  Devas- 
seur. 

His  own  family  name  is  simply  Loy- 
al ; but,  as  he  is  married,  and  as  in 
that  part  of  France  a husband  always 
adds  to  his  own  name  the  family  name 
of  his  wife,  he  writes  himself  Loyal 
Devasseur.  He  owns  a compact  little 
estate  of  some  twenty  or  thirty  acres  on 
a lofty  hillside,  and  on  it  he  has  built 


344 


OUR  FRENCH  IV A TE RING-PLACE. 


two  country  houses  which  he  lets  fur- 
nished. They  are  by  many  degrees  the 
best  houses  that  are  so  let  near,  our 
French  watering-place  ; we  have  had 
the  honor  of  living  in  both,  and  can 
testify.  The  entrance-hall  of  the  first 
we  inhabited  was  ornamented  with  a 
plan  of  the  estate,  representing  it  as 
about  twice  the  size  of  Ireland  ; inso- 
much that  when  we  were  yet  new  to  the 
Property  (M.  Loyal  always  speaks  of  it 
as  ‘‘la  propriete  ”)  we  went  three  miles 
straight  on  end,  in  search  of  the  bridge 
of  Austerlitz,  — which  we  afterwards 
found  to  be  immediately  outside  the 
window.  The  Chateau  of  the  Old 
Guard,  in  another  part  of  the  grounds, 
and,  according  to  the  plan,  about  two 
leagues  from  the  little  dining-room,  we 
sought  in  vain  for  a week,  until,  hap- 
pening one  evening  to  sit  upon  a bench 
m the  forest  (forest  in  the  plan),  a few 
yards  from  the  house-door,  we  observed 
at  our  feet,  in  the  ignominious  circum- 
stances of  being  upside  down  and 
greenly  rotten,  the  Old  Guard  himself: 
that  is  to  say,  the  painted  effigy  of  a 
member  of  that  distinguished  corps, 
seven  feet  high,  and  in  the  act  of  carry- 
ing arms,  who  had  had  the  misfortune  to 
be  blown  down  in  the  previous  winter. 
It  will  be  perceived  that  M.  Loyal  is 
a stanch  admirer  of  the  great  Napo- 
leon. . He  is  an  old  soldier  himself,  — 
captain  of  the  National  Guard,  with  a 
handsome  gold  vase  on  his  chimney- 
piece,  presented  to  him  by  his  com- 
pany, — and  his  respect  for  the  memory 
of  the  illustrious  general  is  enthusiastic. 
Medallions  of  him,  portraits  of  him, 
busts  of  him,  pictures  of  him,  are  thickly 
sprinkled  all  over  the  Property.  Dur- 
ing the  first  month  of  our  occupation, 
it  was  our  affliction  to  be  constantly 
knocking  down  Napoleon  : if  we  touched 
a shelf  in  sL  dark  corner,  he  toppled  over 
with  a crash  ; and  every  door  we  opened 
shook  him  to  the  soul.  Yet  M.  Loyal 
is  not  a man  of  mere  castles  in  the  air, 
or,  as  he  would  say,  in  Spain.  He  has 
a specially  practical,  contriving,  clever, 
skilful  eye  and  hand.  His  houses  are 
delightful.  He  unites  French  elegance 
and  English  comfort,  in  a happy  man- 
ner quite  his  own.  He  has  an  extraor- 
dinary genius  for  making  tasteful  little 


bedrooms  in  angles  of  his  roofs,  which 
an  Englishman  would  as  soon  think  of 
turning  to  any  account  as  he  would 
think  of  cultivating  the  Desert.  We 
have  ourself  reposed  deliciously  in  an 
elegant  chamber  of  M.  Loyal’s  con- 
struction, with  our  head  as  nearly  in 
the  kitchen  chimney-pot  as  we  can  con- 
ceive it  likely  for  the  head  of  any  gen- 
tleman, not  by  profession  a sweep,  to 
be.  And,  into  whatsoever  strange  nook 
M.  Loyal’s  genius  penetrates,  it,  in  that 
nook,  infallibly  constructs  a cupboard 
and  a row  of  pegs.  In  either  of  our 
houses,  we  could  have  put  away  the 
knapsacks  and  hung  up  the  hats  of  the 
whole  regiment  of  Guides. 

Aforetime,  M.  Loyal  was  a tradesman 
in  the  town.  You  can  transact  business 
with  no  present  tradesman  in  the  town, 
and  give  your  card  “ chez  M.  Loyal,” 
but  a brighter  face  shines  upon  you  di- 
rectly. We  doubt  if  there  is,  ever  was, 
or  ever  will  be  a man  so  universally 
pleasant  in  the  minds  of  people  as  M. 
Loyal  is  in  the  minds  of  the  citizens  of 
our  French  watering-place.  They  rub 
their  hands  and  laugh  when  they  speak 
of  him.  Ah,  but  he  is  such  a goo'd 
child,  such  a brave  boy,  such  a generous 
spirit,  that  Monsieur  Loyal ! It  is  the 
honest  truth.  M.  Loyal’s  nature  is  the 
nature  of  a gentleman.  He  cultivates 
his  ground  with  his  own  hands  (assisted 
by  one  little  laborer,  who  falls  into  a fit 
now  and  then)  ; and  he  digs  and  delves 
from  mom  to  eve  in  prodigious  perspi- 
rations,— “ works  always,  ” as  he  says, — 
but  cover  him  with  dust,  mud,  weeds, 
water,  any  stains  you  will,  you  never  can 
cover  the  gentleman  in  M.  Loyal.  A 
portly,  upright,  broad-shouldered, brown- 
faced man,  whose  soldierly  bearing  gives 
him  the  appearance  of  being  taller  than 
he  is,  look  into  the  bright  eye  of  M. 
Loyal,  standing  before  you  in  his  work- 
ing blouse  and  cap,  not  particularly  well 
shaved,  and,  it  may  be,  very  earthy,  and 
you  shall  discern  in  M.  Loyal  a gentle- 
man whose  true  politeness  is  in  grain, 
and  confirmation  of  whose  word  by  his 
bond  you  would  blush  to  think  of.  Not 
without  reason  is  M.  Loyal  when  he 
tells  that  story,  in  his  own  vivacious 
way,  of  his  travelling  to  Fulham,  near 
London,  to  buy  all  these  hundreds  and 


OUR  FRENCH  WATERING-PLACE. 


345 


hundreds  of  trees  you  now  see  upon 
the  Property,  then  a bare,  bleak  hill ; 
and  of  his  sojourning  in  Fulham  three 
months  ; and  of  his  jovial  evenings  with 
the  market- gardeners ; and  of  the  crown- 
ing banquet  before  his  departure,  when 
the  market-gardeners  rose  as  one  man, 
clinked  their  glasses  all  together  (as  the 
custom  at  Fulham  is),  and  cried,  “ Vive 
Loyal ! ” 

M.  Loyal  has  an  agreeable  wife,  but 
no  family;  and  he  loves  to  drill  the 
children  of  his  tenants,  or  run  races 
with  them,  or  do  anything  with  them, 
or  for  them,  that  is  good-natured.  He 
is  of  a highly  convivial  temperament, 
and  his  hospitality  is  unbounded.  Bil- 
let a soldier  on  him,  and  lie  is  de- 
lighted. Five-and-thirty  soldiers  had 
M.  Loyal  billeted  on  him  this  present 
summer,  and  they  all  got  fat  and 
red-faced  in  two  days.  It  became  a 
legend  among  the  troops  that  whoso- 
ever got  billeted  on  M.  Loyal  rolled  in 
clover  ; and  so  it  fell  out  that  the  fortu- 
nate man  who  drew  the  billet  “ M. 
Loyal  Devasseur  ” always  leaped  into 
the  air,  though  in  heavy  marching  order. 
M.  Loyal  cannot  bear  to  admit  anything 
that  might  seem  by  any  implication 
to  disparage  the  military  profession. 
We  hinted  to  him  once,  that  we  were 
conscious  of  a remote  doubt  arising 
in  our  mind,  whether  a sou  a day  for 
pocket-money,  tobacco,  stockings,  drink, 
washing,  and  social  pleasures  in  general, 
left  a very  large  margin  for  a soldier’s 
enjoyment.  Pardon ! said  Monsieur 
Loyal,  rather  wincing.  It  was  not  a 
fortune,  but  — k la  bonne  heure  — it  was 
better  than  it  used  to  be  ! What,  we 
asked  him  on  another  occasion,  were  all 
those  neighboring  peasants,  each  living 
with  his  family  in  one  room,  and  each 
having  a soldier  (perhaps  two)  billeted 
on  him  every  other  night,  required  to 
provide  for  those  soldiers?  “ Faith  ! ” 
said  M.  Loyal,  reluctantly;  “a  bed, 
monsieur,  and  fire  to  cook  with,  and  a 
candle.  And  they  share  their  supper 
with  those  soldiers.  It  is  not  possible 
that  they  could  eat  alone.”  “And 
what  allowance  do  they  get  for  this?” 
said  we.  Monsieur  Loyal  drew  him- 
self up  taller,  took  a step  back,  laid 
his  hand  upon  his  breast,  and  said,  with 


majesty,  as  speaking  for  himself  and  all 
France,  “ Monsieur,  it  is  a contribution 
to  the  state  ! ” 

It  is  never  going  to  rain,  according  to 
M.  Loyal.  When  it  is  impossible  to 
deny  that  it  is  now  raining  in  torrents, 
he  says  it  will  be  fine  — charming  — 
magnificent  — to-morrow.  It  is  never 
hot  on  the  Property,  he  contends. 
Likewise  it  is  never  cold.  The  flowers, 
he  says,  come  out,  delighting  to  grow 
there  ; it  is  like  Paradise  this  morning  ; 
it  is  like  the  Garden  of  Eden.  He  is  a 
little  fanciful  in  his  language  : smilingly 
observing  of  Madame  Loyal,  when  she 
is  absent  at  vespers,  that  she  is  “gone 
to  her  salvation,”  — allee  k son  salut. 
He  has  a great  enjoyment  of  tobacco, 
but  nothing  would  induce  him  to  con- 
tinue smoking  face  to  face  with  a lady. 
His  short  black  pipe  immediately  goes 
into  his  breast-pocket,  scorches  his 
blouse,  and  nearly  sets  him  on  fire.  In 
the  Town  Council  and  on  occasions  of 
ceremony,  he  appears  in  a full  suit  of 
black,  with  a waistcoat  of  magnificent 
breadth  across  the  chest,  and  a shirt- 
collar  of  fabulous  proportions.  Good 
M.  Loyal ! Under  blouse  or  waistcoat, 
he  carries  one  of  the  gentlest  hearts 
that  beat  in  a nation  teeming  with  gen- 
tle people.  He  has  had  losses,  and 
has  been  at  his  best  under  them.  Not 
only  the  loss  of  his  way  by  night  in  the 
Fulham  times,  — when  a bad  subject  of 
an  Englishman,  under  pretence  of  see- 
ing him  home,  took  him  into  all  the 
night  public-houses,  drank  “ arfanarf” 
in  every  one  at  his  expense,  and  finally 
fled,  leaving  him  shipwrecked  at  Clee- 
feeway,  which  we  apprehend  to  be  Rat- 
cliffe  Highway,  — but  heavier  losses 
than  that.  Long  ago,  a family  of  chil- 
dren and  a mother  were  left  in  one  of 
his  houses,  without  money,  a whole 
year.  M.  Loyal  — anything  but  as  rich 
as  we  wish  he  had  been  — had  not  the 
heart  to  say,  “You  must  go  ” ; so  they 
stayed  on  and  stayed  on,  and  paying- 
tenants  who  would  have  come  in  could 
n’t  come  in,  and  at  last  they  managed 
to  get  helped  home  across  the  water, 
and  M.  Loyal  kissed  the  whole  group, 
and  said,  “ Adieu,  my  poor  infants  ! ” 
and  sat  down  in  their  deserted  salon  and 
smoked  his  pipe  of  peace.  — “ The  rent. 


346 


OUR  FRENCH  WATERING-PLACE. 


M.  Loyal  ? ” “ Eh  ! well ! The  rent  ! ” 
M.  Loyal  shakes  his  head.  “ Le  bon 
Dieu,”  says  M.  Loyal,  presently,  “will 
recompense  me  ” ; and  he  laughs  and 
smokes  his  pipe  of  peace.  May  he 
smoke  it  on  the  Property,  and  not  be 
recompensed,  these  fifty  years  ! 

There  are  public  amusements  in  our 
French  watering-place,  or  it  would  not 
be  French.  They  are  very  popular, 
and  very  cheap.  The  sea-bathing  — 
which  may  rank  as  the  most  favored 
daylight  entertainment,  inasmuch  as 
the  French  visitors  bathe  all  day  long, 
and  seldom  appear  to  think  of  remain- 
ing less  than  an  hour  at  a time  in  the 
water  — is  astoundingly  cheap.  Omni- 
buses convey  you,  if  you  please,  from  a 
convenient  part  of  the  town  to  the  beach 
and  back  again  ; you  have  a clean 
and  comfortable  bathing-machine,  dress, 
linen,  and  ail  appliances  ; and  the  charge 
for  the  whole  is  half-a-franc,  or  five- 
pence.  On  the  pier,  there  is  usually 
a guitar,  which  seems  presumptuously 
enough  to  set  its  tinkling  against  the 
deep  hoarseness  of  the  sea,  and  there 
is  always  some  boy  or  woman  who  sings, 
without  any  voice,  little  songs  without 
any  tune  : the  strain  we  have  most  fre- 
quently heard  being  an  appeal  to  “ the 
sportsman  ” not  to  bag  that  choicest  of 
game,  the  swallow.  For  bathing  pur- 
poses, we  have  also  a subscription  es- 
tablishment with  an  esplanade,  where 
people  lounge  about  with  telescopes, 
and  seem  to  get  a good  deal  of  weari- 
ness for  their  money  ; and  we  have  also 
an  association  of  individual  machine- 
proprietors  combined  against  this  for- 
midable rival.  M.  Feroce,  our  own 
particular  friend  in  the  bathing  line,  is 
one  of  these.  How  he  ever  came  by 
his  name,  we  cannot  imagine.  He  is 
as  gentle  and  polite  a man  as  M.  Loyal 
Devasseur  himself ; immensely  stout 
withal,  and  of  a beaming  aspect.  M. 
Feroce  has  saved  so  many  people  from 
drowning,  and  has  been  decorated  with 
so  many  medals  in  consequence,  that 
his  stoutness  seems  a special  dispensa- 
tion of  Providence  to  enable  him  to 
wear  them  ; if  his  girth  were  the  girth 
of  an  ordinary  man,  he  could  _ never 
hang  them  on,  all  at  once.  It  is  only 
on  very  great  occasions  that  M.  Feroce 


displays  his  shining  honors.  At  other 
times  they  lie  by,  with  rolls  of  manu- 
script testifying  to  the  causes  of  their 
presentation,  in  a huge  glass  case  in  the 
red-sofa’d  salon  of  his  private  residence 
on  the  beach,  where  M.  Feroce  also 
keeps  his  family  pictures,  his  portraits 
of  himself  as  he  appears  both  in  bath- 
ing life  and  in  private  life,  his  little 
boats  that  rock  by  clockwork,  and  his 
other  ornamental  possessions. 

Then,  we  have  a commodious  and 
gay  theatre,  — or  had,  for  it  is  burned 
down  now,  — where  the  opera  was  al- 
ways preceded  by  a vaudeville,  in  which 
(as  usual)  everybody,  down  to  the  little 
old  man  with  the  large  hat  and  the 
little  cane  and  tassel,  who  always  played 
either  my  Uncle  or  my  Papa,  suddenly 
broke  out  of  the  dialogue  into  the  mild- 
est vocal  snatches,  to  the  great  per- 
plexity of  unaccustomed  strangers  from 
Great  Britain,  who  never  could  make 
out  when  they  were  singing  and  when 
they  were  talking,  — and  indeed  it  was 
pretty  much  the  same.  But  the  ca- 
terers in  the  way  of  entertainment  to 
whom  we  are  most  beholden  are  the 
Society  of  Welldoing,  who  are  active 
all  the  summer,  and  give  the  proceeds 
of  their  good  works  to  the  poor.  Some 
of  the  most  agreeable  fetes  they  con- 
trive are  announced  as  “Dedicated  to 
the  children  ” ; and  the  taste  with  which 
they  turn  a small  public  enclosure  into  an 
elegant  garden  beautifully  illuminated, 
and  the  thoroughgoing  heartiness  and 
energy  with  which  they  personally  di- 
rect the  childish  pleasures,  are  su- 
remely  delightful.  For  fivepence  a 
ead,  we  have  on  these  occasions  don- 
key-races with  English  “Jokeis,”  and 
other  rustic  sports  ; lotteries  for  toys  ; 
roundabouts,  dancing  on  the  grass  to 
the  music  of  an  admirable  band,  fire- 
balloons,  and  fireworks.  F urther,  al- 
most every  week  all  through  the  sum- 
mer— never  mind,  now,  on  what  day 
of  the  week — there  is  a fete  in  some 
adjoining  village  (called  in  that  part 
of  the  country  a Ducasse),  where  the 
people  — really  the  people  — dance  on 
the  green  turf  in  the  open  air,  round  a 
little  orchestra,  that  seems  itself  to 
dance,  there  is  such  an  airy  motion  of 
flags  and  streamers  all  about  it.  And 


OUR  FRENCH  WATERING-PLACE. 


347 


we  do  not  suppose  that  between  the 
Torrid  Zone  and  the  North  Pole  there 
are  to  be  found  male  dancers  with  such 
astonishingly  loose  legs,  furnished  with 
so  many  joints  in  wrong  places,  utterly 
unknown  to  Professor  Owen,  as  those 
who  here  disport  themselves.  Some- 
times, the  fete  appertains  to  a particu- 
lar trade  ; you.will  see  among  the  cheer- 
ful young  women  at  the  joint  Ducasse 
of  the  milliners  and  tailors,  a whole- 
some knowledge  of  the  art  of  making 
common  and  cheap  things  uncommon 
and  pretty,  by  good  sense  and  good 
taste,  that  is  a practical  lesson  to  any 
rank  of  society  in  a whole  island  we 
could  mention.  The  oddest  feature  of 
these  agreeable  scenes  is  the  everlast- 
ing Roundabout  (we  preserve  an  Eng- 
lish word  wherever  we  can,  as  we  are 
writing  the  English  language),  on  the 
wooden  horses  of  which  machine  grown 
up  people  of  all  ages  are  wound  round 
and  round  with  the  utmost  solemnity, 
while  the  proprietor’s  wife  grinds  an 
organ,  capable  of  only  one  tune,  in 
the  centre. 

As  to  the  boarding-houses  of  our 
French  watering-place,  they  are  Legion, 
and  would  require  a distinct  treatise. 
It  is  not  without  a sentiment  of  nation- 
al pride  that  we  believe  them  to  con- 
tain more  bores  from  the  shores  of 
Albion  than  all  the  clubs  in  London. 
As  you  walk  timidly  in  their  neighbor- 
hood, the  very  neckcloths  and  hats  of 
your  elderly  compatriots  cry  to  you 
from  the  stones  of  the  streets,  “ We  are 
Bores, — avoid  us!”  We  have  never 
overheard  at  street  corners  such  lunatic 
scraps  of  political  and  social  discussion 
as  among  these  dear  countrymen  of 
ours.  They  believe  everything  that 
is  impossible  and  nothing  that  is  true. 
They  carry  rumors,  and  ask  questions, 
and  make  corrections  and  improve- 


ments on  one  another,  staggering  to 
the  human  intellect.  And  they  are  for- 
ever rushing  into  the  English  library, 
propounding  such  incomprehensible 
paradoxes  to  the  fair  mistress  of  that 
establishment,  that  we  beg  to  recom- 
mend her  to  her  Majesty’s  gracious 
consideration  as  a fit  object  for  a pen- 
sion. 

The  English  form  a considerable  part 
of  the  population  of  our  French  water- 
ing-place, and  are  deservedly  addressed 
and  respected  in  many  ways.  Some 
of  the  surface  addresses  to  them  are 
odd  enough,  as  when  a laundress  puts 
a placard  outside  her  house  announcing 
her  possession  of  that  curious  British 
instrument,  a “ Mingle  ” ; or  when  a 
tavern-keeper  provides  accommodation 
for  the  celebrated  English  game  of 
“ Nokemdon.”  But,  to  us,  it  is  not 
the  least  pleasant  feature  of  our  French 
watering-place  that  a long  and  constant 
fusion  of  the  two  great  nations  there 
has  taught  each  to  like  the  other,  and 
to  learn  from  the  other  and  to  rise 
superior  to  the  absurd  prejudices  that 
have  lingered  among  the  weak  and 
ignorant  in  both  countries  equally. 

Drumming  and  trumpeting  of  course 
go  on  forever  in  our  French  watering- 
place.  Flag-flying  is  at  a premium, 
too  ; but  we  cheerfully  avow  that  we 
consider  a flag  a very  pretty  object, 
and  that  we  take  such  outward  signs 
of  innocent  liveliness  to  our  heart  of 
hearts.  The  people,  in  the  town  and 
in  the  country,  are  a busy  people  who 
work  hard  ; they  are  sober,  temperate, 
good-humored,  light-hearted,  and  gen- 
erally remarkable  for  their  engaging 
manners.  Few  just  men,  not  immoder- 
ately bilious,  could  see  them  in  their 
recreations  without  very  much  respect- 
ing the  character  that  is  so  easily,  so 
harmlessly,  and  so  simply  pleased. 


348 


BILL-STICKING. 


BILL-STICKING. 


If  I had  an  enemy  whom  I hated,  — 
which  Heaven  forbid  ! — and  if  I knew 
of  something  that  sat  heavy  on  his 
conscience,  I think  I would  introduce 
that  something  into  a Posting- Bill,  and 
place  a large  impression  in  the  hands  of 
an  active  sticker.  I can  scarcely  im- 
agine a more  terrible  revenge.  I should 
haunt  him,  by  this  means,  night  and 
day.  I do  not  mean  to  say  that  I would 
publish  his  secret,  in  red  letters  two 
feet  high,  for  all  the  town  to  read : I 
would  darkly  refer  to  it.  It  should  be 
between  him,  and  me,  and  the  Posting- 
Bill.  Say,  for  example,  that,  at  a 
certain  period  of  his  life,  my_  enemy  had 
surreptitiously  possessed  himself  of  a 
key.  I w'ould  then  embark  my  capital 
in  the  lock  business,  and  conduct  that 
business  on  the  advertising  principle. 
In  all  my  placards  and  advertisements, 
I would  throw  up  the  line  Secret 
Keys.  Thus,  if  my  enemy  passed  an 
uninhabited  house,  he  would  see  his 
conscience  glaring  down  on  him  from  the 
parapets,  and  peeping  up  at  him  from 
the  cellars.  If  he  took  a dead  wall  in 
his  walk,  it  would  be  alive  with  re- 
proaches. If  he  sought  refuge  in  an 
omnibus,  the  panels  thereof  would 
become  Belshazzar’s  palace  to  him. 
If  he  took  boat,  in  a wild  endeavor  to 
escape,  he  would  see  the  fatal  wrords 
lurking  under  the  arches  of  the  bridges 
over  the  Thames.  If  he  walked  the 
streets  with  downcast  eyes,  he  would 
recoil  from  the  very  stones  of  the  pave- 
ment, made  eloquent  by  lampblack 
lithograph.  If  he  drove  or  rode,  his 
way  would  be  blocked  up  by  enormous 
vans,  each  proclaiming  the  same  words 
over  and  over  again  from  its  whole 
extent  of  surface.  Until,  having  grad- 
ually grown  thinner  and  paler,  and  hav- 
ing at  last  totally  rejected  food,  he 
would  miserably  perish,  and  I should  be 
revenged.  This  conclusion  I should, 
no  doubt,  celebrate  by  laughing  a 


hoarse.laugh  in  three  syllables,  and  fold- 
ing my  arms  tight  upon  my  chest  agree- 
ably to  most  of  the  examples  of  glutted 
animosity  that  I have  had  an  opportuni- 
ty of  observing  in  connection  with  the 
drama, — which,  by  the  by,  as  involv- 
ing a good  deal  of  noise,  appears  to  me 
to  be  occasionally  confounded  with  the 
drummer. 

The  foregoing  reflections  presented 
themselves  to  my  mind,  the  other  day, 
as  I contemplated  (being  newly  come 
to  London  from  the  East  Riding  of 
Yorkshire,  on  a house-hunting  expedi- 
tion for  next  May}  an  old  warehouse 
which  rotting  paste  and  rotting  paper 
had  brought  down  to  the  condition  of 
an  old  cheese.  It  would  have  been  im- 
possible to  say,  on  the  most  conscien- 
tious survey,  how  much  of  its  front  was 
brick  and  mortar,  and  how  much  de- 
caying and  decayed  plaster.  It  was  so 
thickly  encrusted  with  fragments  of 
bills,  that  no  ship’s  keel  after  a long 
voyage  could  be  half  so  foul.  All  traces 
of  the  broken  windows  were  billed  out, 
the  doors  were  billed  across,  the  water- 
spout w'as  billed  over.  The  building 
wras  shored  up  to  prevent  its  tumbling 
into  the  street ; and  the  very  beams 
erected  against  it  were  less  wood  than 
paste  and  paper,  they  had  been  so  con- 
tinually posted  and  reposted.  The  for- 
lorn dregs  of  old  posters  so  encumbered 
this  wreck,  that  there  was  no  hold  for 
new  posters,  and  the  stickers  had  aban- 
doned the  place  in  despair,  except  one 
enterprising  man  who  had  hoisted  the 
last  masquerade  to  a clear  spot  near  the 
level  of  the  stack  of  chimneys,  where  it 
waved  and  drooped  like  a shattered 
flag.  Below  the  rusty  cellar  grating, 
crumpled  remnants  of  old  bills  torn 
down  rotted  away  in  wasting  heaps  of 
fallen  leaves.  Here  and  there,  some  of 
the  thick  rind  of  the  house  had  peeled 
off  in  strips,  and  fluttered  heavily  down, 
littering  the  street;  but  still,  below 


BILL-STICKING. 


349 


these  rents  and  gashes,  layers  of  decom- 
posing posters  showed  themselves,  as  if 
they  were  interminable.  I thought  the 
building  could  never  even  be  pulled 
down,  but  in  one  adhesive  heap  of  rot- 
tenness and  poster.  As  to  getting  in, 
I don’t  believe  that  if  the  Sleeping 
Beauty  and  her  Court  had  been  so  billed 
up,  the  young  Prince  could  have  done 
it. 

Knowing  all  the  posters  that  were  yet 
legible  intimately,  and  pondering  on 
their  ubiquitous  nature,  I was  led  into 
the  reflections  with  which  I began  this 
paper,  by  considering  what  an  awful 
thing  it  would  be  ever  to  have  wronged 
— say  M.  Jullien,  for  example  — and 
to  have  his  avenging  name  in  characters 
of  fire  incessantly  before  my  eyes.  Or 
to  have  injured  Madame  Tussaud, 
and  undergo  a similar  retribution.  Has 
any  man  a self-reproachful  thought  asr 
sociated  with  pills  or  ointment?  What 
an  avenging  spirit  to  that  man  is  Pro- 
fessor Holloway  ! Have  I sinned 
in  oil?  Cabburn  pursues  me.  Have 
I a dark  remembrance  associated  with 
any  gentlemanly  garments,  bespoke  or 
ready  made?  Moses  and  Son  are  on 
my  track.  Did  I ever  aim  a blow  at 
a defenceless  fellow-creature’s  head  ? 
That  head  eternally  being  measured  for 
a wig,  or  that  worse  head  which  was 
bald  before  it  used  the  balsam,  and  hir- 
sute afterwards,  — enforcing  the  benev- 
olent moral,  “ Better  to  be  bald  as  a 
Dutch-cheese  than  come  to  this,”  — 
undoes  me.  Have  I no  sore  places  in 
my  mind  which  Mechi  touches,  which 
Nicoll  probes,  which  no  registered 
article  whatever  lacerates?  Does  no 
discordant  note  within  me  thrill  re- 
sponsive to  mysterious  watchwords,  as 
“Revalenta  Arabica,”  or  “Number 
One  St.  Paul’s  Churchyard/’?  Then 
may  I enjoy  life,  and  be  happy. 

Lifting  up  my  eyes,  as  I was  musing 
to  this  effect,  I beheld  advancing  to- 
wards me  (I  was  then  on  Cornhill  near 
to  the  Royal  Exchange),  a solemn  pro- 
cession of  three  advertising  vans,  of 
first-class  dimensions,  each  drawn  by 
a very  little  horse.  As  the  cavalcade 
approached,  I was  at  a loss  to  reconcile 
the  careless  deportment  of  the  drivers 
of  these  vehicles  with  the  terrific  an- 


nouncements they  conducted  through 
the  city,  which,  being  a summary  of  the 
contents  of  a Sunday  newspaper,  were 
of  the  most  thrilling  kind.  Robbery, 
fire,  murder,  and  the  ruin  of  the  united 
kingdom,  — each  discharged  in  a line  by 
itself,  like  a separate  broadside  of  red- 
hot  shot,  — were  among  the  least  of  the 
warnings  addressed  to  an  unthinking 
people.  Yet,  the  Ministers  of  Fate 
who  drove  the  awful  cars  leaned  for- 
ward with  their  arms  upon  their  knees 
in  a state  of  extreme  lassitude,  for  want 
of  any  subject  of  interest.  The  first 
man,  whose  hair  I might  naturally  have 
expected  to  see  standing  on  end, 
scratched  his  head  — one  of  the  smooth- 
est I ever  beheld  — with  profound  in- 
difference. The  second  whistled.  The 
third  yawned. 

Pausing  to  dwell  upon  this  apathy,  it 
appeared  to  me,  as  the  fatal  cars  came 
by  me,  that  I descried  in  the  second 
car,  through  the  portal  in  which  the 
charioteer  was  seated,  a figure  stretched 
upon  the  floor.  At  the  same  time,  I 
thought  I smelt  tobacco.  The  latter 
impression  passed  quickly  from  me ; 
the  former  remained.  Curious  to  know 
whether  this  prostrate  figure  was  the  one 
impressible  man  of  the  whole  capital 
who  had  been  stricken  insensible  by  the 
terrors  revealed  to  him,  and  whose  form 
had  been  placed  in  the  car  by  the  char- 
ioteer, from  motives  of  humanity,  I fol- 
lowed the  procession.  It  turned  into 
Leadenhall  Market,  and  halted  at  3 
public-house.  Each  driver  dismounted. 
I then  distinctly  heard,  proceeding  from 
the  second  car,  where  I had  dimly  seen 
the  prostrate  form,  the  words,  — 

“ And  a pipe  ! ” 

The  driver  entering  the  public-house 
with  his  fellows,  apparently  for  purposes 
of  refreshment,  I could  not  refrain  from 
mounting  on  the  shaft  of  the  second 
vehicle,  and  looking  in  at  the  portal. 
I then  beheld,  reclining  on  his  back 
upon  the  floor,  on  a kind  of  mattress  or 
divan,  a little  man  in  a shooting-coat. 
The  exclamation  “ Dear  me  ! ” which 
irresistibly  escaped  my  lips,  caused  him 
to  sit  upright,  and  survey  me.  I found 
him  to  be  a good-looking  little  man  of 
about  fifty,  with  a shining  face,  a tight 
head,  a bright  eye,  a moist  wink,  a quick 


350 


BILL-STICKING. 


speech,  and  a ready  air.  He  had  some- 
thing of  a sporting  way  with  him. 

He  looked  at  me,  and  I looked  at 
him,  until  the  driver  displaced  me  by 
handing  in  a pint  of  beer,  a pipe,  and 
what  I understand  is  called  “ a screw  ” 
of  tobacco,  — an  object  which  has  the 
appearance  of  a curl-paper  taken  off 
the  barmaid’s  head,  with  the  curl  in  it. 

“I  beg  your  pardon,”  said  I,  when 
the  removed  person  of  the  driver  again 
admitted  of  my  presenting  my  face  at 
the  portal.  “ But  — excuse  my  curios- 
ity, which  I inherit  from  my  mother  — 
do  you  live  here  ? ” 

“ That ’s  good,  too  ! ” returned  the 
little  man,  composedly  laying  aside  a 
pipe  he  had  smoked  out,  and  filling  the 
pipe  just  brought  to  him. 

“ O,  you  don't  live  here  then?” 
said  I. 

He  shook  his  head,  as  he  calmly 
lighted  his  pipe  by  means  of  a German 
tinder-box,  and  replied,  “ This  is  my 
carriage.  When  things  are  flat,  I take 
a ride  sometimes,  and  enjoy  myself.  I 
am  the  inventor  of  these  wans.” 

His  pipe  was  now  alight.  He  drank 
his  beer  all  at  once,  and  he  smoked  and 
he  smiled  at  me. 

“ It  was  a great  idea  ! ” said  I. 

“ Not  so  bad,”  returned  the  little 
man,  with  the  modesty  of  merit. 

“ Might  I be  permitted  to  inscribe 
your  name  upon  the  tablets  of  my  mem- 
ory ? ” I asked. 

“ There ’s  not  much  odds  in  the 
name,”  returned  the  little  man,  “ — no 
name  particular — I am  the  King  of  the 
Bill-Stickers.” 

“ Good  gracious  ! ” said  I. 

The  monarch  informed  me,  with  a 
smile,  that  he  had  never  been  crowned 
or  installed  with  any  public  ceremonies, 
but  that  he  was  peaceably  acknowl- 
edged as  King  of  the  Bill-Stickers  in 
right  of  being  the  oldest  and  most  re- 
spected member  of  “ the  old  school  of 
bill-sticking.”  He  likewise  gave  me  to 
understand  that  there  was  a Lord  Mayor 
of  the  Bill-Stickers,  whose  genius  was 
chiefly  exercised  within  the  limits  of  the 
city.  He  made  some  allusion,  also',  to 
an  inferior  potentate,  called  “Turkey- 
legs  ” ; but  I did  not  understand  that 
this  gentleman  was  invested  with  much 


power.  I rather  inferred  that  he  de- 
rived his  title  from  some  peculiarity  of 
gait,  and  that  it  was  of  an  honorary  char- 
acter. 

“My  father,”  pursued  the  King  of 
the  Bill-Stickers,  “was  Engineer,  Bea- 
dle, and  Bill-Sticker  to  the  parish  of  St. 
Andrew’s,  Holborn,  in  the  year  one 
thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty. 
My  father  stuck  bills  at  the  time  of  the 
riots  of  London.” 

“You  must  be  acquainted  with  the 
whole  subject  of  bill-sticking,  from  that 
time  to  the  present ! ” said  I. 

“ Pretty  well  so,”  was  the  answer. 

“Excuse  me,”  said  I;  “but  I am  a 
sort  of  collector — ” 

“Not  income-tax?”  cried  his  Maj- 
esty, hastily  removing  his  pipe  from  his 
lips.  * 

“ No,  no,”  said  I. 

“ Water-rate?”  said  his  Majesty. 

“ No,  no,”  I returned. 

“Gas?  Assessed?  Sewers?”  sail 
his  Majesty. 

“You  misunderstand  me,”  I replied, 
soothingly.  “ Not  that  sort  of  collector 
at  all, — a collector  of  facts.” 

“Oh!  if  it’s  only  facts,”  cried  the 
King  of  the  Bill-Stickers,  recovering 
his  good-humor,  and  banishing  the 
great  mistrust  that  had  suddenly  fallen 
upon  him,  “ come  in  and  welcome  ! If 
it  had  been  income,  or  winders,  I think 
I should  have  pitched  you  out  of  the 
wan,  upon  my  soul ! ” 

Readily  complying  with  the  invitation, 
I squeezed  myself  in  at  the  small  aper- 
ture. His  Majesty,  graciously  handing 
me  a little  three-legged  stool  on  which 
I took  my  seat  in  a corner,  inquired  if  I 
smoked. 

“I  do ; that  is,  I can,”  I answered. 

“ Pipe  and  a screw  ! ” said  his  Maj- 
esty to  the  attendant  charioteer.  “ Do 
you  prefer  a dry  smoke,  or  do  you 
moisten  it?  ” 

As  unmitigated  tobacco  produces 
most  disturbing  effects  upon  my  system 
(indeed  if  I had  perfect  moral  courage, 

I doubt  if  I should  smoke  at  all,  under 
any  circumstances),  I advocated  mois- 
ture, and  begged  the  Sovereign  of  the 
Bill-Stickers  to  name  his  usual  liquor, 
and  to  concede  to  me  the  privilege  of 
paying  for  it.  After  some  delicate  re- 


BILL-STICKING. 


3Si 


luctance  on  his  part,  we  were  provided, 
through  the  instrumentality  of  the  at- 
tendant charioteer,  with  a can  of  cold 
rum  and  water,  flavored  with  sugar  and 
lemon.  We  were  also  furnished  with 
a tumbler,  and  I was  provided  with  a 
pipe.  His  Majesty,  then, . observing 
that  we  might  combine  business  with 
conversation,  gave  the  word  for  the  car 
to  proceed ; and,  to  my  great  delight, 
we  jogged  away  at  a foot  pace. 

I say  to  my  great  delight,  because  I 
am  very  fond  of  novelty,  and  it  was  a 
new  sensation  to  be  jolting  through  the 
tumult  of  the  city  in  that  secluded 
Temple,  partly  open  to  the  sky,  sur- 
rounded by  the  roar  without,  and  see- 
ing nothing  but  the  clouds.  Occa- 
sionally, blows  from  whips  fell  heavily 
on  the  Temple’s  walls,  when  by  stop- 
ping up  the  road  longer  than  usual,  we 
irritated  carters  and  coachmen  to  mad- 
ness ; but  they  fell  harmless  upon  us 
within,  and  disturbed  not  the  serenity 
of  our  peaceful  retreat.  As  I looked 
upward,  I felt,  I should  imagine,  like 
the  Astronomer  Royal.  I was  en- 
chanted by  the  contrast  between  the 
freezing  nature  of  our  external  mission 
on  the  blood  of  the  populace,  and  the 
perfect  composure  reigning  within  those 
sacred  precincts  : where  his  Majesty, 
reclining  easily  on  his  left  arm,  smoked 
his  pipe  and  drank  his  rum  and  water 
from  his  own  side  of  the  tumbler,  which 
stood  impartially  between  us.  As  I 
looked  down  from  the  clouds  and 
caught  his  royal  eye,  he  understood  my 
reflections.  “I  have  an  idea,”  he  ob- 
served, with  an  upward  glance,  “ of 
training  scarlet-runners  across  in  the 
season,  — making  a arbor  of  it,  — and 
sometimes  taking  tea  in  the  same  ac- 
cording to  the  song.” 

I nodded  approval. 

“And  here  you  repose  and  think?” 
said  I. 

“And  think,”  said  he,  “of  posters, 
— walls,  — and  hoardings.” 

We  were  both  silent,  contemplating 
the  vastness  of  the  subject.  I remem- 
bered a surprising  fancy  of  dear  Thom- 
as Hood’s,  and  wondered  whether  this 
monarch  ever  sighed  to  repair  to  the 
great  wall  of  China,  and  stick  bills  all 
over  it. 


“And  so,”  said  he,  rousing  himself, 
“ it 's  facts  as  you  collect  ? ” 

“ Facts,”  said  I. 

“The  facts  of  bill-sticking,”  pursued 
his  Majesty,  in  a benignant  manner, 
“ as  known  to  myself,  air  as  following. 
When  my  father  was  Engineer,  Beadle, 
and  Bill-Sticker  to  the  parish  of  St. 
Andrew’s,  Holborn,  he  employed  wo- 
men to  post  bills  for  him.  He  em- 
ployed women  to  post  bills  at  the  time 
of  the  riots  of  London.  He  died  at  the 
age  of  seventy-five  year,  and  was  buried 
by  the  murdered  Eliza  Grimwood,  over 
in  the  Waterloo-road.” 

As  this  was  somewhat  in  the  nature 
of  a royal  speech,  I listened  with  def- 
erence and  silently.  His  Majesty, 
taking  a scroll  from  his  pocket,  pro- 
ceeded, with  great  distinctness,  to  pour 
out  the  following  flood  of  informa- 
tion : — 

“ ‘ The  bills  being  at  that  period 
mostly  proclamations  and  declarations, 
and  which  were  only  a demy  size,  the 
manner  of  posting  the  bills  (as  they  did 
not  use  brushes)  was  by  means  of  a 
piece  of  wood  which  they  called  a 
“dabber.”  Thus  things  continued  till 
such  time  as  the  State  Lottery  was 
passed,  and  then  the  printers  began  to 
print  larger  bills,  and  men  were  em- 
ployed instead  of  women,  as  the  State 
Lottery  Commissioners  then  began  to 
send  men  all  over  England  to  post  bills, 
and  would  keep  them  out  for  six  or 
eight  months  at  a time,  and  they  were 
called  by  the  London  bill-stickers 
“ tramfiers”  their  wages  at  the  time 
being  ten  shillings  per  day,  besides 
expenses.  They  used  sometimes  to 
be  stationed  in  large  towns  for  five  or 
six  months  together,  distributing  the 
schemes  to  all  the  houses  in  the  town. 
And  then  there  were  more  caricature 
wood-block  engravings  for  posting-bills 
than  there  are  at  the  present  time,  the 
principal  printers,  at  that  time,  of  post- 
ing-bills being  Messrs.  Evans  and 
Ruffy,  of  Budge  Row;  Thoroughgood 
and  Whiting,  of  the  present  day  ; and 
Messrs.  Gye  and  Balne,  Gracechurch 
Street,  City.  The  largest  bills  printed 
at  that  period  were  a two-sheet  double 
crown ; and  when  they  commenced 
printing  four-sheet  bills,  two  bill-stick- 


352 


BILL-STICKING. 


ers  would  work  together.  They  had  no 
settled  wages  per  week,  but  had  a fixed 
price  for  their  work,  and  the  London 
bill-stickers,  during  a lottery  week, 
have  been  known  to  earn,  each  eight  or 
nine  pounds  per  week,  till  the  day  of 
drawing  ; likewise  the  men  who  earned 
boards  in  the  street  used  to  have  one 
pound  per  week,  and  the  bill-stickers  at 
that  time  would  not  allow  any  one  to 
wilfully  cover  or  destroy  their  bills,  as 
they  had  a society  amongst  themselves, 
and  very  frequently  dined  together  at 
some  public-house  where  they  used  to 
go  of  an  evening  to  have  their  work  de- 
livered out  untoe  ’em.’  ” 

All  this  his  Majesty  delivered  in  a 
gallant  manner;  posting  it,  as  it  were, 
before  me,  in  a great  proclamation.  I 
took  advantage  of  the  pause  he  now 
made,  to  inquire  what  a “two-sheet 
double  crown”  might  express? 

“ A two-sheet  double  crown,”  replied 
the  King,  “ is  a bill  thirty-nine  inches 
wide  by  thirty  inches  high.” 

“ Is  it  possible,”  said  I,  my  mind 
reverting  to  the  gigantic  admonitions 
we  were  then  displaying  to  the  multi- 
tude,— which  were  as  infants  to  some 
of  the  posting-bills  on  the  rotten  old 
warehouse,  — “ that  some  few  years 
ago  the  largest  bill  was  no  larger  than 
that  ? ” 

“The  fact,”  returned  the  King,  “is 
undoubtedly  so.”  Here  he  instantly 
rushed  again  into  the  scroll. 

“ ‘ Since  the  abolishing  of  the  State 
Lottery,  all  that  good  feeling  has  gone, 
and  nothing  but  jealousy  exists,  through 
the  rivalry  of  each  other.  Several  bill- 
sticking  companies  have  started,  but 
have  failed.  The  first  party  that  started 
a company  was  twelve  year  ago ; but 
what  was  left  of  the  old  school  and  their 
dependants  joined  together  and  opposed 
them.  And  for  some  time  we  were 
quiet  again,  till  a printer  of  Hatton 
Garden  formed  a company  by  hiring  the 
sides  of  houses ; but  he  was  not  sup- 
ported by  the  public,  and  he  left  his 
wooden  frames  fixed  up  for  rent.  The 
last  company  that  started,  took  advan- 
tage of  the  New  Police  Act,  and  hired 
of  Messrs.  Grisell  and  Peto  the  hoard- 
ing of  Trafalgar  Square,  and  established 
a bill-sticking  office  in  Cursitor  Street, 


Chancery  Lane,  and  engaged  some  of 
the  new  bill-stickers  to  do  their  work, 
and  for  a time  got  the  half  of  all  our 
work,  and  with  such  spirit  did  they  car- 
ry on  their  opposition  towards  us,  that 
they  used  to  give  us  in  charge  before 
the  magistrate,  and  get  us  fined  ; but 
they  found  it  so  expensive,  that  they 
could  not  keep  it  up,  for  they  were 
always  employing  a lot  of  ruffians  from 
the  Seven  Dials  to  come  and  fight  us ; 
and  on  one  occasion  the  old  bill-stickers 
went  to  Trafalgar  Square  to  attempt  to 
post  bills,  when  they  were  given  in  cus- 
tody by  the  watchman  in  their  employ, 
and  fined  at  Queen  Square  five  pounds, 
as  they  would  ^ot  allow  any  of  us  to 
speak  in  the  office ; but  when  they  were 
gone,  we  had  an  interview  with  the 
magistrate,  who  mitigated  the  fine  to 
fifteen  shillings.  During  the  time  the 
men  were  waiting  for  the  fine,  this  com- 
pany started  off  to  a public-house  that 
we  were  in  the  habit  of  using,  and 
waited  for  us  coming  back,  where  a 
fighting  scene  took  place  that  beggars 
description.  Shortly  after  this,  the  prin- 
cipal one  day  came  and  shook  hands 
with  us,  and  acknowledged  that  he  had 
broken  up  the  company,  and  that  he 
himself  had  lost  five  hundred  pound  in 
trying  to  overthrow  us.  We  then  took 
possession  of  the  hoarding  in  Trafalgar 
Square  ; but  Messrs.  Grisell  and  Peto 
would  not  allow  us  to  post  our  bills  on 
the  said  hoarding  without  paying  them, 
— and  from  first  to  last  we  paid  upwards 
of  two  hundred  pounds  for  that  hoard- 
ing and  likewise  the  hoarding  of  the 
Reform  Club-house,  Pall  Mall.’” 

His  Majesty,  being  now  completely 
out  of  breath,  laid  down  his  scroll 
(which  he  appeared  to  have  finished), 
puffed  at  his  pipe,  and  took  some  rum 
and  water.  I embraced  the  opportunity 
of  asking  how  many  divisions  the  art 
and  mystery  of  bill-sticking  comprised? 
He  replied,  three,  — auctioneers’  bill- 
sticking,  theatrical  bill-sticking,  general 
bill-sticking. 

“The  auctioneers’ . porters,”  said  the 
King,  “ who  do  their  bill-sticking,  are 
mostly  respectable  and  intelligent,  and 
generally  well  paid  for  their  work* 
whether  in  town  or  country.  The  pnc$. 
paid  by  the  principal  auctioneers  fijj; 


BILL-STICKING . 


353 


country  work  is  nine  shillings  per  day  ; 
that  is,  seven  shillings  for  day’s  work, 
one  shilling  for  lodging,  and  one  for 
paste.  Town  work  is  five  shillings  a 
day,  including  paste.” 

“ Town  work  must  be  rather  hot 
work,”  said  I,  “if  there  be  many  of 
those  fighting  scenes  that  beggar  de- 
scription, among  the  bill-stickers?” 

“ Well,”  replied  the  King,  “ I ain’t  a 
stranger,  I assure  you,  to  black  eyes  ; 
a bill-sticker  ought  to  know  how  to 
handle  his  fists  a bit.  As  to  that  row  I 
have  mentioned,  that  grew  out  of  com- 
petition, conducted  in  an  uncompromis- 
ing spirit.  Besides  a man  in  a horse- 
and-shay  continually  following  us  about, 
the  company  had  a watchman  on  duty, 
night  and  dayf  to  prevent  us  sticking 
bills  upon  the  hoarding  in  Trafalgar 
Square.  We  went  there,  early  one 
morning,  to  stick  bills  and  to  black- 
wash  their  bills  if  we  were  interfered 
with.  We  were  interfered  with,  and  I 
gave  the  word  for  laying  on  the  wash. 
It  was  laid  on,  pretty  brisk,  and  we 
were  all  taken  to  Queen  Square  ; but 
they  couldn’t  fine  me.  I knew  that,” 
— with  a bright  smile,  — “ I ’d  only 
given  directions  — I was  only  the  Gen- 
eral.” 

Charmed  with  this  monarch’s  affabil- 
ity, I inquired  if  he  had  ever  hired  a 
hoarding  himself. 

“ Hired  a large  one,”  he  replied, 
“ opposite  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  when 
the  buildings  was  there.  Paid  thirty 
pound  for  it ; let  out  places  on  it,  and 
called  it  ‘ The  External  Paper-Hanging 
Station.’  But  it  did  n’t  answer.  Ah!” 
said  his  Majesty,  thoughtfully,  as  he 
filled  the  glass,  “bill-stickers  have  a 
deal  to  contend  with.  The  bill-sticking 
clause  was  got  into  the  police  act  by 
a member  of  Parliament  that  employed 
me  at  his  election.  The  clause  is  pretty 
stiff  respecting  where  bills  go  ; but  he 
did  n’t  mind  where  his  bills  went.  It 
was  all  right  enough,  so  long  as  they 
was  his  bills  ! ” 

Fearful  that  I observed  a shadow  of 
misanthropy  on  the  King’s  cheerful 
face,  I asked  whose  ingenious  inven- 
tion that  was,  which  I greatly  admired, 
of  sticking  bills  under  the  arches  of  the 
bridges. 


“ Mine  ! ” said  his  Majesty.  “ I was 
the  first  that  ever  stuck  a bill  under  a 
bridge ! Imitators  soon  rose  up,  of 
course.  When  don’t  they  ? But  they 
stuck  ’em  at  low-water,  and  the  tide 
came  and  swept  the  bills  clean  away. 
/ knew  that ! ” The  King  laughed. 

“ What  may  be  the  name  of  that  in- 
strument, like  an  immense  fishing-rod,” 

I inquired,  “with  which  bills  are  posted 
on  high  places  ? ” 

“ The  joints,”  returned  his  Majesty. 
“ Now,  we  use  the  joints  where  former- 
ly we  used  ladders,  — as  they  do  still  in 
country  places.  Once,  when  Madame  ” 
(Vestris,  understood)  “ was  playing  in 
Liverpool,  another  bill-sticker  and  me 
were  at  it  together  on  the  wall  outside 
the  Clarence  Dock,  — me  with  the  joints, 
him  on  a ladder.  Lord ! I had  my 
bill  up,  right  over  his  head,  yards  above 
him,  ladder  and  all,  while  he  was  crawl- 
ing to  his  work.  The  people  going  in 
and  out  of  the  docks  stood  and  laughed  ! 
It ’s  about  thirty  years  since  the  joints 
come  in.” 

“ Are  there  any  bill-stickers  who  can’t 
read  ? ” I took  the  liberty  of  inquir- 
ing. 

“ Some,”  said  the  King.  “ But  they 
know  which  is  the  right  side  up’ards  of 
their  work.  They  keep  it  as  it ’s  given 
out  to  ’em.  I have  seen  a bill  or  so 
stuck  wrong  side  up’ards.  But  it ’s 
very  rare.” 

Our  discourse  sustained  some  inter- 
ruption at  this  point,  by  the  procession 
of  cars  occasioning  a stoppage  of  about 
three  quarters  of  a mile  in  length,  as 
nearly  as  I could  judge.  His  Majesty, 
however,  entreating  me  not  to  be  dis- 
composed by  the  contingent  uproar, 
smoked  with  great  placidity,  and  sur- 
veyed the  firmament. 

When  we  were  again  in  motion,  I 
begged  to  be  informed  what  was  the 
largest  poster  his  Majesty  had  ever  seen. 
The  King  replied,  “A  thirty-six  sheet 
poster.”  I gathered,  also,  that  there  were 
about  a hundred  and  fifty  bill-stickers  in 
London,  and  that  his  Majesty  considered 
an  average  hand  equal  to  the  posting  of 
one  hundred  bills  (single  sheets)  in  a 
day.  The  King  was  of  opinion,  that, 
although  posters  had  much  increased  in 
si2.*,  they  had  not  increased  in  number ; 


23 


354 


BILL-STICKING. 


as  the  abolition  of  the  State  Lotter- 
ies had  occasioned  a great  failing  off, 
especially  in  the  country.  Over  and 
above  which  change,  I bethought  my- 
self that  the  custom  of  advertising  in 
newspapers  had  greatly  increased.  The 
completion  of  many  London  improve- 
ments, as  Trafalgar  Square  (I  particu- 
larly observed  the  singularity  of  his 
Majesty’s  calling  that  an  improvement), 
the  Royal  Exchange,  &c.,  had  of  late 
years  reduced  the  number  of  advanta- 
geous posting-places.  Bill-stickers  at 
present  rather  confine  themselves  to 
districts  than  to  particular  descriptions 
of  work.  One  man  would  strike  over 
Whitechapel,  another  would  takje  round 
Houndsditch,  Shoreditch,  and  the  City 
Road  ; one  (the  King  said)  would  stick 
to  the  Surrey  side ; another  would  make 
a beat  of  the  West  End. 

His  Majesty  remarked,  with  some 
approach  to  severity,  on  the  neglect  of 
delicacy  and  taste,  gradually  introduced 
into  the  trade  by  the  new  school;  a 
profligate  and  inferior  race  of  impostors 
who  took  jobs  at  almost  any  price,  to 
the  detriment  of  the  old  school,  and  the 
confusion  of  their  own  misguided  em- 
ployers. He  considered  that  the  trade 
was  overdone  with  competition,  and  ob- 
served, speaking  of  his  subjects,  “ There 
are  too  many  of  ’em.”  He  believed, 
still,  that  things  were  a little  better  than 
they  had  been  ; adducing,  as  a proof, 
the  fact  that  particular  posting  places 
were  now  reserved,  by  common  consent, 
for  particular  posters ; those  places, 
however,  must  be  regularly  occupied  by 
those  posters,  or  they  lapsed  and  fell 
into  other  hands.  It  was  of  no  use 
giving  a man  a Drury  Lane  bill  this 
week  and  not  next.  Where  was  it  to 
go?  He  was  of  opinion  that  going  to 
the  expense  of  putting  up  your  own 
board  on  which  your  sticker  could  dis- 
play your  own  bills  was  the  only  com- 
plete way  of  posting  yourself  at  the 
present  time  ; but  even  to  effect  this,  on 
payment  of  a shilling  a week  to  the 
keepers  of  steamboat  piers  and  other 
such  places,  you  must  be  able,  besides, 
to  give  orders  for  theatres  and  public 
exhibitions,  or  you  would  be  sure  to  be 
cut  out  by  somebody.  His  Majesty  re- 
garded the  passion  for  orders  as  one  of 


the  most  inappeasable  appetites  of  hu- 
man nature.  If  there  were  a building, 
or  if  there  were  repairs  going  on,  any- 
where, you  could  generally  stand  some- 
thing and  make  it  right  with  the  fore- 
man of  the  works  ; but  orders  would 
be  expected  from  you,  and  the  man 
who  could  give  the  most  orders  was  the 
man  who  would  come  off  best.  There 
was  this  other  objectionable  point,  in 
orders,  that  workmen  sold  them  for  drink, 
and  often  sold  them  to  persons  who 
were  likewise  troubled  with  the  weak- 
ness of  thirst  ; which  led  (his  Majesty 
said)  to  the  presentation  of  your  orders 
at  theatre  doors  by  individuals  who 
were  “too  shakery”  to  derive  intellect- 
ual profit  from  the  entertainments,  and 
who  brought  a scandal  on  you.  Fi- 
nally, his  Majesty  said  that  you  could 
hardly  put  too  little  in  a poster ; what 
you  wanted  was,  two  or  three  good  catch- 
lines for  the  eye  to  rest  on  — then,  leave 
it  alone  — and  there  you  were  ! 

These  are  the  minutes  of  my  conver- 
sation with  his  Majesty,  as  I noted 
them  down  shortly  afterwards.  I am 
not  aware  that  I have  been  betrayed 
into  any  alteration  or  suppression.  The 
manner  of  the  King  was  frank  in  the  ex- 
treme ; and  he  seemed  to  me  to  avoid, 
at  once  that  slight  tendency  to  repeti- 
tion which  may  have  been  observed  in 
the  conversation  of  his  Majesty  King 
George  the  Third,  and  that  slight  un- 
dercurrent of  egotism  which  the  curious 
observer  may  perhaps  detect  in  the  con- 
versation of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 

I must  do  the  King  the  justice  to  say 
that  it  was  I,  and  not  he,  who  closed 
the  dialogue.  At  this  juncture,  I be- 
came the  subject  of  a remarkable  opti- 
cal delusion  ; the  legs  of  my  stool  ap- 
peared to  me  to  double  up  ; the  car  to 
spin  round  and  round  with  great  vio- 
lence ; and  a mist  to  arise  between  my- 
self and  his  Majesty.  In  addition  to 
these  sensations,  I felt  extremely  un- 
well. I refer  these  unpleasant  effects, 
either  to  the  paste  with  which  the  pos- 
ters were  affixed"  to  the  van,  which 
may  have  contained  some  small  portion 
of  arsenic,  or  to  the  printer’s  ink, 
which  may  have  contained  some  equal- 
ly deleterious  ingredient.  Of  this  I can- 
not be  sure.  I am  only  sure  that  I was 


BIRTHS.  MRS.  MEEK , OF  A SON.” 


355 


not  affected,  either  by  the  smoke  or  the 
rum  and  water.  I was  assisted  out  of 
the  vehicle,  in  a state  of  mind  which 
I have  only  experienced  in  two  other 
places,  — I allude  to  the  Pier  at  Dover, 
and  to  the  corresponding  portion  of  the 


town  of  Calais,  — and  sat  upon  a door- 
step until  I recovered.  The  procession 
had  then  disappeared.  I have  since 
looked  anxiously  for  the  King  in  sev- 
eral other  cars,  but  I Have  not  yet  had 
the  happiness  of  seeing  his  Majesty. 


“BIRTHS.  MRS.  MEEK,  OF  A SON.” 


My  name  is  Meek.  I am,  in  fact, 
Mr.  Meek.  That  son  is  mine  and  Mrs. 
Meek’s.  When  I saw  the  announce- 
ment in  the  Times,  I dropped  the  pa- 
per. I had  put  it  in,  myself,  and  paid 
for  it,  but  it  looked  so  noble  that  it 
overpowered  me. 

As  soon  as  I could  compose  my  feel- 
ings, I took  the  paper  up  to  Mrs.  Meek’s 
bedside.  “ Maria  Jane,”  said  I (I  allude 
to  Mrs.  Meek),  “ you  are  now  a public 
character.”  We  read  the  review  of  our 
child  several  times,  with  feelings  of 
the  strongest  emotion  ; and  I sent  the 
boy  who  cleans  the  boots  and  shoes  to 
the  office  for  fifteen  copies.  No  reduc- 
tion was  made  on  taking  that  quantity. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  for  me  to  say, 
that  our  child  had  been  expected ; in 
fact  it  had  been  expected  with  compara- 
tive confidence,  for  some  months.  Mrs. 
Meek’s  mother,  who  resides  with  us,  — 
of  the  name  of  Bigby,  — had  made  every 
preparation  for  its  admission  to  our 
circle. 

I hope  and  believe  I am  a quiet  man. 
I will  go  further.  I know  I am  a quiet 
man.  My  constitution  is  tremulous, 
my  voice  was  never  loud,  and,  in  point 
of  stature,  I have  been  from  infancy 
small.  I have  the  greatest  respect  for 
Maria  Jane’s  mamma.  She  is  a most 
remarkable  woman.  I honor-  Maria 
Jane’s  mamma.  In  my  opinion  she 
would  storm  a town,  single-handed, 
with  a hearth-broom,  and  carry  it.  I 
have  never  known  her  to  yield  any  point 
whatever  to  mortal  man.  She  is  calcu- 
lated to  terrify  the  stoutest  heart. 


Still  — but  I will  not  anticipate. 

The  first  intimation  I had,  of  any 
preparations  being  in  progress,  on  the 
part  of  Maria  Jane’s  mamma,  was  one 
afternoon,  several  months  ago.  I came 
home  earlier  than  usual  from  the  office, 
and,  proceeding  into  the  dining-room, 
found  an  obstruction  behind  the  door, 
which  prevented  it  from  opening  freely. 
It  was  an  obstruction  of  a soft  nature. 
On  looking  in,  I found  it  to  be  a female. 

The  female  in  question  stood  in  the 
corner  behind  the  door,  consuming 
sherry  wine.  From  the  nutty  smell  of 
that  beverage  pervading  the  apartment, 
I have  no  doubt  she  was  consuming  a 
second  glassful.  She  wore  a black 
bonnet  of  large  dimensions,  and  was 
copious  in  figure.  The  expression  of 
her  countenance  was  severe  and  discon- 
tented The  words  to  which  she  gave 
utterance  on  seeing  me  were  these,  “ O 
git  along  with  you,  sir,  if  you  please  ; 
me  and  Mrs.  Bigby  don’t  want  no  male 
parties  here  ! ” 

That  female  was  Mrs.  Prodgit. 

I immediately  withdrew,  of  course. 
I was  rather  hurt,  but  I made  no  re- 
mark. Whether  it  was  that  I showed  a 
lowness  of  spirits  after  dinner,  in  con- 
sequence of  feeling  that  I seemed  to  in- 
trude, I cannot  say.  But,  Maria  Jane’s 
mamma  said  to  me  on  her  retiring  for  the 
night,  in  a low  distinct  voice,  and  with 
a look  cf  reproach  that  completely  sub- 
dued me,  “George  Meek,  Mrs.  Prod- 
git is  your  wife’s  nurse  ! ” 

I bear  no  ill-will  towards  Mrs.  Prod- 
git. Is  it  likely  that  I,  writing  this 


356 


BIRTHS . MRS.  MEEK , OF  ^ SCW.’ 


with  tears  in  my  eyes,  should  be  capa- 
ble of  deliberate  animosity  towards  a 
female,  so  essential  to  the  welfare  of 
Maria  Jane?  .1  am  willing  to  admit 
that  Fate  may  have  been  to  blame,  and 
not  Mrs.  Prodgit ; but  it  is  undeniably 
true,  that  the  latter  female  brought  des- 
olation and  devastation  into  my  lowly 
dwelling. 

We  were  happy  after  her  first  ap- 
pearance : we  were  sometimes  exceed- 
ingly so.  But  whenever  the  parlor  door 
was  opened,  and  “ Mrs.  Prodgit ! ” an- 
nounced (and  she  was  very  often  an- 
nounced), misery  ensued.  I could  not 
bear  Mrs.  Prodgit’s  look.  I felt  that  I 
was  far  from  wanted,  and  had  no  busi- 
ness to  exist  in  Mrs.  Prodgit’s  presence. 
Between  Maria  Jane’s  mamma  and  Mrs. 
Prodgit,  there  was  a dreadful,  secret 
understanding,  — a dark  mystery  and 
conspiracy,  pointing  me  out  as  a being 
to  be  shunned.  I appeared  to  have 
done  something  that  was  evil.  When- 
ever Mrs.  Prodgit  called,  after  dinner, 
I retired  to  my  dressing-room,  — where 
the  temperature  is  very  low  indeed  in 
the  wintry  time  of  the  year,  — and  sat 
looking  at  my  frosty  breath  as  it  rose 
before  me,  and  at  my  rack  of  boots,  — a 
serviceable  article  of  furniture,  but  never, 
in  my  opinion,  an  exhilarating  object. 
The  length  of  the  councils  that  were 
held  with  Mrs.  Prodgit,  under  these  cir- 
cumstances, I will  not  attempt  to  de- 
scribe. I will  merely  remark,  that  Mrs. 
Prodgit  always  consumed  sherry  wine 
while  the  deliberations  were  in  pro- 
gress ; that  they  always  ended  in  Ma- 
ria Jane’s  being  in  wretched  spirits  on 
the  sofa  ; and  that  Maria  Jane’s  mamma 
always  received  me,  when  I was  re- 
called, with  a look  of  desolate  triumph 
that  too  plainly  said,  “ Now , George 
Meek  ! You  see  my  child,  Maria  Jane, 
a ruin,  and  I hope  you  are  satisfied  ! ” 

I pass,  generally,  over  the  period  that 
intervened  between  the  day  when  Mrs. 
Prodgit  entered  her  protest  against 
male  parties,  and  the  ever-memorable 
midnight  when  I brought  her  to  my 
unobtrusive  home  in  a cab,  with  an 
extremely  large  box  on  the  roof,  and 
a bundle,  a bandbox,  and  a basket 
between  the  driver’s  legs.  I have  no 
objection  to  Mrs.  Prodgit  (aided  and 


abetted  by  Mrs.  Bigby,  who  I never 
can  forget  is  the  parent  of  Maria  Jane) 
taking  entire  possession  of  my  unas- 
suming establishment.  In  the  recesses 
of  my  own  breast,  the  thought  may 
linger  that  a man  in  possession  cannot 
be  so  dreadful  as  a woman,  and  that 
woman  Mrs.  Prodgit  ; but  I ought  to 
bear  a good  deal,  and  I hope  I can,  and 
do.  Huffing  and  snubbing  prey  upon 
my  feelings  ; but  I can  bear  them  with- 
out complaint.  They  may  tell  in  the 
long  run  ; I maybe  hustled  about,  from 
post  to  pillar,  beyond  my  strength ; 
nevertheless,  I wish  to  avoid  giving 
rise  to  words  in  the  family. 

The  voice  of  nature,  however,  cries 
aloud  in  behalf  of  Augustus  George, 
my  infant  son.  It  is  for  him  that  I wish 
to  utter  a few  plaintive  household 
words.  I am  not  at  all  angry ; I am 
mild,  but  miserable. 

I wish  to  know  why,  when  my  child, 
Augustus  George,  was  expected  in  our 
circle,  a provision  of  pins  was  made,  as 
if  the  little  stranger  were  a criminal  who 
was  to  be  put  to  the  torture  immediately 
on  his  arrival,  instead  of  a holy  babe  ? 
I wish  to  know  why  haste  was  made  to 
stick  those  pins  all  over  his  innocent 
form,  in  every  direction  ? I wish  to  be 
informed  why  light  and  air  are  excluded 
from  Augustus  George,  like  poisons? 
Why,  I ask,  is  my  unoffending  infant 
so  hedged  into  a basket-bedstead,  with 
dimity  and  calico,  with  miniature  sheets 
and  blankets,  that  I can  only  hear  him 
snuffle  (and  no  wonder !)  deep  down 
under  the  pink  hood  of  a little  bath- 
ing-machine, and  can  never  peruse 
even  so  much  of  his  lineaments  as  his 
nose. 

Was  I expected  to  be  the  father  of  a 
French  Roll,  that  the  brushes  of  All 
Nations  were  laid  in,  to  rasp  Augustus 
George  ? Am  I to  be  told  that  his  sen- 
sitive skin  was  ever  intended  by  Nature 
to  have  rashes  brought  out  upon  it, 
by  the  premature  and  incessant  use  of 
those  formidable  little  instruments? 

Is  my  son  a Nutmeg,  that  he  is  to  be 
grated  on  the  stiff  edges  of  sharp  frills? 
Am  I the  parent  of  a Muslin  boy,  that 
his  yielding  surface  is  to  be  crimped  and 
small-plaited?  Or  is  my  child  com- 
posed of  Paper  or  of  Linen,  that  im- 


357 


“BIRTHS.  MRS.  MEEK , OF  A SON.” 


pressions  of  the  finer  getting-up  art, 
practised  by  the  laundress,  are  to  be 
printed  off,  all  over  his  soft  arms  and 
legs,  as  I constantly  observe  them  ? 
The  starch  enters  his  soul ; who  can 
wonder  that  he  cries  ? 

Was  Augustus  George  intended  to 
have  limbs,  or  to  be  bom  a Torso  ? I 
presume  that  limbs  were  the  intention, 
as  they  are  the  usual  practice.  Then, 
why  are  my  poor  child’s  limbs  fettered 
and  tied  up?  Am  I to  be  told  that 
there  is  any  analogy  between  Augustus 
George  Meek  and  Jack  Sheppard  ? 

Analyze  Castor  Oil  at  any  Institution 
of  Chemistry  that  may  be  agreed  upon, 
and  inform  me  what  resemblance,  in 
taste,  it  bears  to  that  natural  provision 
which  it  is  at  once  the  pride  and  duty 
of  Maria  Jane  to  administer  to  Augus- 
tus George  ! * Yet,  I charge  Mrs.  Prod- 
git  (aided  and  abetted  by  Mrs.  Bigby) 
with  systematically  forcing  Castor  Oil 
on  my  innocent  son,  from  the  first  hour 
of  his  birth.  When  that  medicine,  in 
its  efficient  action,  causes  internal  dis- 
turbance to  Augustus  George,  I charge 
Mrs.  Prodgit  (aided  and  abetted  by 
Mrs.  Bigby)  with  insanely  and  inconsist- 
ently administering  opium  to  allay  the 
storm  she  has  raised  ! What  is  the 
meaning  of  this? 

If  the  days  of  Egyptian  Mummies 
are  past,  how  dare  Mrs.  Prodgit  require, 
for  the  use  of  my  son,  an  amount  of 
flannel  and  linen  that  would  carpet  my 
humble  roof?  Do  I wonder  that  she 
requires  it?  No  ! This  morning,  with- 
in an  hour,  I beheld  this  agonizing 
sight.  I beheld  my  son  — Augustus 
George  — in  Mrs.  Prodgit’s  hands,  and 
on  Mrs.  Prodgit’s  knee,  being  dressed. 
He  was  at  the  moment,  comparatively 
speaking,  in  a state  of  nature  ; having 
nothing  on  but  an  extremely  short 
shirt,  remarkably  disproportionate  to 
the  length  of  his  usual  outer  garments. 
Trailing  from  Mrs.  Prodgit’s  lap,  on 
the  floor,  was  a long  narrow  roller  or 
bandage,  — I should  say  of  several  yards 


in  extent.  In  this,  I saw  Mrs.  Prodgit 
tightly  roll  the  body  of  my  unoffending 
infant,  turning  him  over  and  over,  now 
presenting  his  unconscious  face  up- 
wards, now  the  back  of  his  bald  head, 
until  the  unnatural  feat  was  accom- 
plished, and  the  bandage  secured  by  a 
pin,  which  I have  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve entered  the  body  of  my  only  child. 
In  this  tourniquet  he  passes  the  pres- 
ent phase  of  his  existence.  Can  I know 
it,  and  smile  ! 

I fear  I have  been  betrayed  into  ex- 
pressing myself  warmly,  but  I feel  deep- 
ly. Not  for  myself ; for  Augustus 
George.  I dare  not  interfere.  Will 
anyone?  Will  any  publication ? Any 
doctor?  Any  parent  ? Anybody  ? I 
do  not  complain  that  Mrs.  Prodgit  (aid- 
ed and  abetted  by  Mrs.  Bigby)  entirely 
alienates  Maria  Jane’s  affections  from 
me,  and  interposes  an  impassable  barrier 
between  us.  I do  not  complain  of  being 
made  of  no  account.  I do  not  want  to 
be  of  any  account.  But  Augustus 
George  is  a production  of  Nature  (I 
cannot  think  otherwise),  and  I claim 
that  he  should  be  treated  with  some 
remote  reference  to  Nature.  In  my 
opinion,  Mrs.  Prodgit  is,  from  first  to 
last,  a convention  and  a superstition. 
Are  all  the  faculty  afraid  of  Mrs.  Prod- 
git? If  not,  why  don’t  they  take  her 
in  hand  and  improve  her? 

P.  S.  Maria  Jane’s  mamma  boasts  of 
her  own  knowledge  of  the  subject,  and 
says  she  brought  up  seven  children 
besides  Maria  Jane.  But  how  do  / 
know  that  she  might  not  have  brought 
them  up  much  better?  Maria  Jane 
herself  is  far  from  strong,  and  is  subject 
to  headaches,  and  nervous  indigestion. 
Besides  which,  I learn  from  the  statis- 
tical tables  that  one  child  in  five  dies 
within  the  first  year  of  its  life  ; and  one 
child  in  three,  within  the  fifth.  That 
don’t  look  as  if  we  could  never  improve 
in  these  particulars,  I think  ! 

P.  P.  S.  Augustus  George  is  in  con- 
vulsions. 


358 


LYING  AWAKE . 


LYING 


“ My  uncle  lay  with  his  eyes  half 
closed,  and  his  nightcap  drawn  almost 
down  to  his  nose.  His  fancy  was 
already  wandering,  and  began  to  mingle 
up  the  present  scene  with  the  crater  of 
Vesuvius,  the  French  Opera,  the  Coli- 
seum at  Rome,  Dolly’s  Chop-house  in 
London,  and  all  the  farrago  of  noted 
places  with  which  the  brain  of  a travel- 
ler is  crammed ; in  a word,  he  was  just 
falling  asleep.” 

Thus  that  delightful  writer,  Wash- 
ington Irving,  in  his  Tales  of  a Trav- 
eller. But  it  happened  to  me  the 
other  night  to  be  lying,  not  with  my 
eyes  half  closed,  but  with  my  eyes  wide 
open;  not  with  my  nightcap  drawn  al- 
most down  to  my  nose,  for  on  sanitary 
principles  I never  wear  a nightcap,  but 
with  my  hair  pitchforked  and  touzled 
all  over  the  pillow ; not  just  falling 
asleep  by  any  means,  but  glaringly, 
persistently,  and  obstinately  broad 
awake.  Perhaps,  with  no  scientific 
intention  or  invention,  I was  illustrat- 
ing the  theory  of  the  Duality  of  the 
Brain  ; perhaps  one  part  of  my  brain, 
being  wakeful,  sat  up  to  watch  the  other 
part  which  w'as  sleepy.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  something  in  me  was  as  desirous 
to  go  to  sleep  as  it  possibly  could  be, 
but  something  else  in  me  would  not  go 
to  sleep,  and  was  as  obstinate  as  George 
the  Third. 

Thinking  of  George  the  Third — for 
I devote  this  paper  to  my  train  of 
thoughts  as  I lay  awake  : most  people 
lying  awake  sometimes,  and  having 
some  interest  in  the  subject — put  me 
in  mind  of  Benjamin  Franklin,  and 
so  Benjamin  Franklin’s  paper  on  the 
art  of  procuring  pleasant  dreams,  which 
would  seem  necessarily  to  include  the 
art  of  going  to  sleep,  came  into  my 
head.  Now,  as  I often  used  to  read 
that  paper  when  I was  a very  small  boy, 
and  as  I recollect  everything  I read 
then  as  perfectly  as  I forget  everything 


awake. 


I read  now,  I quoted  “ Get  out  of  bed, 
beat  up  and  turn  your  pillow,  shake  the 
bedclothes  well  with  at  least  twenty 
shakes,  then  throw  the  bed  open  and 
leave  it  to  cool;  in  the  mean  while, 
continuing  undrest,  walk  about  your 
chamber.  When  you  begin  to  feel  the 
cold  air  unpleasant,  then  return  to  your 
bed,  and  you  wilPsoon  fall  asleep,  and 
your  sleep  will  be  sw^eet  and  pleasant.” 
Not  a bit  of  it ! I performed  the  whole 
ceremony,  and  if  it  were  possible  for 
me  to  be  more  saucer-eyed  than  I was 
before,  that  was  the  only  result  that 
came  of  it. 

Except  Niagara.  The  two  quota- 
tions from  Washington  Irving  and  Ben- 
jamin Franklin  may  have  put  it  in  my 
head  by  an  American  association  of 
ideas  ; but  there  I was,  and  the  Horse- 
shoe Fall  was  thundering  and  tumbling 
in  my  eyes  and  ears,  and  the  very  rain- 
bows that  I left  upon  the  spray  when  I 
really  did  last  look  upon  it  were  beau- 
tiful to  see.  The  night-light  being  quite 
as  plain,  however,  and  sleep  seeming 
to  be  many  thousand  miles  farther  on 
than  Niagara,  I made  up  my  mind  to 
think  a little  about  sleep,  which  I no 
sooner  did  than  I whirled  off  in  spite 
of  myself  to  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  and 
there  saw  a great  actor  and  dear  friend 
of  mine  (whom  I had  been  thinking 
of  in  the  day)  playing  Macbeth,  and 
heard  him  apostrophizing  “the  death 
of  each  day’s  life,”  as  I have  heard 
him  many  a time,  in  the  days  that  are 
gone. 

But,  sleep.  I will  think  about  sleep. 
I am  determined  to  think  (this  is  the 
way  I went  on)  about  sleep.  I must 
hold  the  word  “ sleep  ” tight  and  fast,  or 
I shall  be  off  at  a tangent  in  half  a sec- 
ond. I feel  myself  unaccountably  stray- 
ing, already,  into  Clare  Market.  Sleep. 
It  would  be  curious,  as  illustrating  the 
equality  of  sleep,  to  inquire  how  many 
of  its  phenomena  are  common  to  all 


LYING  AWAKE. 


359 


classes,  to  all  degrees  of  wealth  and 
poverty,  to  every  grade  of  education 
and  ignorance.  Here,  for  example,  is 
her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria  in  her  pal- 
ace, this  present  blessed  night,  and 
here  is  Winking  Charley,  a sturdy  va- 
grant, in  one  of  her  Majesty’s  jails. 
Her  Majesty  h$s  fallen,  many  thou- 
sands of  times,  from  that  same  Tower, 
which  I claim  a right  to  tumble  off  now 
and  then.  So  has  Winking  Charley. 
Her  Majesty  in  her  sleep  has  opened 
or  prorogued  Parliament,  or  has  held 
a drawing-room,  attired  in  some  very 
scanty  dress,  the  deficiencies  and  im- 
proprieties of  which  have  caused  her 
great  uneasiness.  I,  in  my  degree, 
have  suffered  unspeakable  agitation  of 
mind  from  taking  the  chair  at  a public 
dinner  at  the  London  Tavern  in  my 
night-clothes,  which  not  all  the  courtesy 
of  my  kind  friend  and  host  Mr.  Bathe 
could  persuade  me  were  quite  adapted 
to  the  occasion.  Winking  Charley  has 
been  repeatedly  tried  in  a worse  condi- 
tion. Her  Majesty  is  no  stranger  to  a 
vault  or  firmament,  of  a sort  of  floor- 
cloth, with  an  indistinct  pattern  dis- 
tantly resembling  eyes,  which  occasion- 
ally obtrudes  itself  on  her  repose. 
Neither  am  I.  Neither  is  Winking 
Charley.  It  is  quite  common  to  all 
three  of  us  to  skim  along  with  airy 
strides  a little  above  the  ground ; also 
to  hold,  with  the  deepest  interest,  dia- 
logues with  various  people,  all  repre- 
sented by  ourselves  ; and  to  be  at  our 
wit’s  end  to  know  what  they  are  going 
to  tell  us ; and  to  be  indescribably  as- 
tonished by  the  secrets  they  disclose. 
It  is  probable  that  we  have  all  three 
committed  murders  and  hidden  bodies. 
It  is  pretty  certain  that  we  have  all  des- 
perately wanted  to  cry  out,  and  have 
had  no  voice  ; that  we  have  all  gone  to 
the  play  and  not  been  able  to  get  in  ; 
that  we  have  all  dreamed  much  more 
of  our  youth  than  of  our  later  lives ; 
that — I have  lost  it!  The  thread’s 
broken. 

And  up  I go.  I,  lying  here  with  the 
night-light  before  me,  up  I go,  for  no 
reason  on  earth  that  I can  find  out,  and 
drawn  by  no  links  that  are  visible  to 
me,  up  the  Great  Saint  Bernard ! I 
have  lived  in  Switzerland,  and  rambled 


among  the  mountains ; but,  why  I 
should  go  there  now,  and  why  up  the 
Great  Saint  Bernard  in  preference  to 
any  other  mountain,  I have  no  idea. 
As  I lie  here  broad  awake,  and  with 
every  sense  so  sharpened  that  I can 
distinctly  hear  distant  noises  inaudible 
to  me  at  another  time,  I make  that 
journey,  as  I really  did,  on  the  same 
summer  day,  with  the  same  happy 
party,  — ah  ! two  since  dead,  I grieve 
to  think,  — and  there  is  the  same  track, 
with  the  same  black  wooden  arms  to 
point  the  way,  and  there  are  the  same 
storm-refuges  here  and  there  ; and  there 
is  the  same  snow  falling  at  the  top,  and 
there  are  the  same  frosty  mists,  and 
there  is  the  same  intensely  cold  convent 
with  its  menagerie  smell,  and  the  same 
breed  of  dogs  fast  dying  out',  and  the 
same  breed  of  jolly  young  monks  whom 
I mourn  to  know  as  humbugs,  and  the 
same  convent  parlor  with  its  piano  and 
the  sitting  round  the  fire,  and  the  same 
supper,  and  the  same  lone  night  in  a 
ceil,  and  the  same  bright  fresh  morn- 
ing when  going  out  into  the . highly 
rarefied  air  was  like  a plunge  into  an 
icy  bath.  Now,  see  here  what  comes 
along ; and  why  does  this  thing  stalk 
into  my  mind  on  the  top  of  a Swiss 
mountain  ! 

It  is  a figure  that  I once  saw  just  af- 
ter dark,  chalked  upon  a door  in  a little 
back  lane  near  a country  church,  — my 
first  church.  How  young  a child  I may 
have  been  at  the  time  I don’t  know,  but 
it  horrified  me  so  intensely,  — in  con- 
nection with  the  churchyard,  I suppose, 
for  it  smokes  a pipe,  and  has  a big  hat 
with  each  of  its  ears  sticking  out  in  a 
horizontal  line  under  the  brim,  and  is 
not  in  itself  more  oppressive  than  a 
mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  a pair  of  goggle 
eyes,  and  hands  like  two  bunches  of  car- 
rots, five  in  each,  can  make  it,  — that  it 
is  still  vaguely  alarming  to  me  to  recall 
(as  I have  often  done  before,  lying 
awake)  the  running  home,  the  looking 
behind,  the  horror  of  its  following  me  ; 
though  whether  disconnected  from  the 
door,  or  door  and  all,  I can’t  say,  and 
perhaps  never  could.  It  lays  a disa- 
greeable train.  I must  resolve  to  think 
of  something  on  the  voluntary  princi- 
ple. 


360 


LYING  AWAKE. 


The  balloon  ascents  of  this  last  sea- 
son. They  will  do  to  think  about, 
while  I lie  awake,  as  well  as  anything 
else.  I must  hold  them  tight  though, 
for  I feel  them  sliding  away,  and  in 
their  stead  are  the  Mannings,  hus- 
band and  wife,  hanging  on  the  top  of 
Horsemonger  Lane  Jail.  In  connec- 
tion with  which  dismal  spectacle,  I re- 
call this  curious  fantasy  of  the  mind. 
That,  having  beheld  that  execution,  and 
having  left  those  two  forms  dangling 
on  the  top  of  the  entrance  gateway, — 
the  man’s,  a limp,  loose  suit  of  clothes 
as  if  the  man  had  gone  out  of  them  ; the 
woman’s,  a fine  shape,  so  elaborately 
corseted  and  artfully  dressed,  that  it 
was  quite  unchanged  in  its  trim  appear- 
ance as  it  slowly  swung  from  side  to 
side,  — I never  could,  by  my  utmost 
efforts,  for  some  w'eeks,  present  the  out- 
side of  that  prison  to  myself  (which  the 
terrible  impression  I had  received  con- 
tinually obliged  me  to  do)  without  pre- 
senting it  with  the  two  figures  still 
hanging  in  the  morning  air.  Until, 
strolling  past  the  gloomy  place  one 
night,  when  the  street  was  deserted 
and  quiet,  and  actually  seeing  that  the 
bodies  were  not  there,  my  fancy  was 
persuaded,  as  it  were,  to  take  them 
down  and  bury  them  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  jail,  where  they  have  lain 
ever  since. 

The  balloon  ascents  of  last  season. 
Let  me  reckon  them  up.  There  were 
the  horse,  the  bull,  the  parachute,  and 
the  tumbler  hanging  cn  — chiefly  by  his 
toes,  I believe  — below  the  car.  Very 
wrong,  indeed,  and  decidedly  to  be 
stopped.  But,  in  connection  with  these 
and  similar  dangerous  exhibitions,  it 
strikes  me  that  that  portion  of  the 
public  whom  they  entertain  is  unjustly 
reproached.  Their  pleasure  is  in  the 
difficulty  overcome.  They  are  a public 
of  great  faith,  and  are  quite  confident 
that  the  gentleman  will  not  fall  off  the 
horse,  or  the  lady  off  the  bull  or  out  ' of 
the  parachute,  and  that  the  tumbler  has 
a firm  hold  with  his  toes.  They  do  not 
go  to  see  the  adventurer  vanquished, 
but  triumphant.  There  is  no  parallel 
in  public  combats  between  men  and 
beasts,  because  nobody  can  answer  for 
the  particular  beast,  — unless  it  were 


always  the  same  beast,  in  which  case  i; 
would  be  a mere  stage-show,  which  the 
same  public  would  go  in  the  same  state 
of  mind  to  see,  entirely  believing  in  the 
brute  being  beforehand  safely  subdued 
by  the  man.  That  they  are  not  accus- 
tomed to  calculate  hazards  and  dangers 
with  any  nicety,  we  jnay  know  from 
their  rash  exposure  of  themselves  in 
overcrowded  steamboats  and  unsafe 
conveyances  and  places  of  all  kinds. 
And  I cannot  help  thinking  that  instead 
of  railing,  and  attributing  savage  mo- 
tives to  a people  naturally  well  disposed 
and  humane,  it  is  better  to  teach  them, 
and  lead  them  argumentatively  and 
reasonably  — for  they  are  very  reason- 
able, if  you  w'ill  discuss  a matter  with 
them  — to  more  considerate  and  wise 
conclusions. 

This  is  a disagreeable  intrusion ! 
Here  is  a man  with  his  throat  cut,  dash- 
ing towards  me  as  I lie  awake  ! A rec- 
ollection of  an  old  story  of  a kinsman  of 
mine,  who,  going  home  one  foggy  winter 
night  to  Hampstead,  when  London  was 
much  smaller  and  the  road  lonesome, 
suddenly  encountered  such  a figure 
rushing  past  him,  and  presently  two 
keepers  from  a madhouse  in  pursuit.  A 
very  unpleasant  creature  indeed  to 
come  into  my  mind  unbidden,  as  I lie 
awake. 

The  balloon  ascents  of  last  season. 
I must  return  to  the  balloons.  Why  did 
the  bleeding  man  start  out  of  them? 
Never  mind  ; if  I inquire,  he  will  be 
back  again.  The  balloons.  This  par- 
ticular public  have  inherently  a great 
pleasure  in  the  contemplation  of  phys- 
ical difficulties  overcome  ; mainly,  as  I 
take  it,  because  the  lives  of  a large  ma- 
jority of  them  are  exceedingly  monoto- 
nous and  real,  and  further,  are  a strug- 
gle against  continual  difficulties,  and 
further  still,  because  anything  in  the 
form  of  accidental  injury,  or  any  kind  of 
illness  or  disability,  is  so  very  serious  in 
their  own  sphere.  I will  explain  this 
seeming  paradox  of  mine.  Take  the 
case  of  a Christmas  Pantomime.  Sure- 
ly nobody  supposes  that  the  young  moth- 
er in  the  pit  who  falls  into  fits  of  laugh- 
ter when  the  baby  is  boiled  or  sat  upon 
would  be  at  all  diverted  by  such  an 
occurrence  off  the  stage.  Nor  is  the 


LYING  AWAKE. 


decent  workman  in  the  gallery,  who  is 
transported  beyond  the  ignorant  pres- 
ent by  the  delight  with  which  he  sees  a 
stout  gentleman  pushed  out  of  a two 
pair  of  stairs  window,  to  be  slandered 
by  the  suspicion  that  he  would  be  in  the 
least  entertained  by  such  a spectacle 
in  any  street  in  London,  Paris,  or  New 
York.  It  always  appears  to  me  that  the 
secret  of  this  enjoyment  lies  in  the  tem- 
porary superiority  to  the  common  haz- 
ards and  mischances  of  life  ; in  seeing 
casualties,  attended  when  they  really 
occur  with  bodily  and  mental  suffering, 
tears,  and  poverty,  happen  through  a 
very  rough  sort  of  poetry  without  the 
least  harm  being  done  to  any  one,  — 
the  pretence  of  distress  in  a pantomime 
being  so  broadly  humorous  as  to  be  no 
pretence  at  all.  Much  as  in  the  comic 
fiction  I can  understand  the  mother  with 
a very  vulnerable  baby  at  home,  greatly 
relishing  the  invulnerable  baby  on  the 
stage,  so  in  the  Cremorne  reality  I can 
understand  the  mason  who  is  always 
liable  to  fall  off  a scaffold  in  his  work- 
ing jacket,  and  to  be  carried  to  the  hos- 
pital, having  an  infinite  admiration  of 
the  radiant  personage  in  spangles  who 
goes  into  the  clouds  upon  a bull,  or  up- 
side down,  and  who  he  takes  it  for  grant- 
ed — not  reflecting  upon  the  thing  — 
Las,  by  uncommon  skill  and  dexterity, 
conquered  such  mischances  as  those  to 
which  he  and  his  acquaintance  are  con- 
tinually exposed. 

I wish  the  Morgue  in  Paris  would  not 
come  here  as  I lie  awake,  with  its  ghast- 
ly beds,  and  the  swollen  saturated  clothes 
hanging  up,  and  the  water  dripping,  drip- 
ping all  day  long,  upon  that  other  swollen 
saturated  something  in  the  corner,  like 
a heap  of  crushed  over-ripe  figs  that  I 
have  seen  in  Italy  ! And  this  detestable 
Morgue  comes  back  again  at  the  head 
of  a procession  of  forgotten  ghost-sto- 
ries. This  will  never  do.  I must  think 
of  something  else  as  I lie  awake  ; or, 
like  that  sagacious  animal  in  the  United 
States  who  recognized  the  colonel  who 
was  such  a dead  shot,  I am  a gone 
’Coon.  What  shall  I think  of?  The 
late  brutal  assaults.  Very  good  sub- 
ject. The  late  brutal  assaults. 

(Though  whether,  supposing  I should 
see,  here  before  me  as  I lie  awake,  the 


361 

awful  phantom  described  in  one  of  those 
ghost-stories,  who,  with  a head-dress 
of  shroud,  was  always  seen  looking  in 
through  a certain  glass  door  at  a cer- 
tain dead  hour,  — whether,  in  such  a case 
it  would  be  the  least  consolation  to  me 
to  know  on  philosophical  grounds  that 
it  was  merely  my  imagination,  is  a 
question  I can’t  help  asking  myself  by 
the  way.) 

The  late  brutal  assaults.  I strongly 
question  the  expediency  of  advocating 
the  revival  of  whipping  for  those  crimes. 
It  is  a natural  and  generous  impulse 
to  be  indignant  at  the  perpetration  of 
inconceivable  brutality,  but  I doubt 
the  whipping  panacea  gravely.  Not  in 
the  least  regard  or  pity  for  the  crimi- 
nal, whom  I hold  in  far  lower  estima- 
tion than  a mad  wolf,  but  in  consider- 
ation for  the  general  tone  and  feeling, 
which  is  very  much  improved  since  the 
whipping  times.  It  is  bad  for  a peo- 
ple to  be  familiarized  with  such  pun- 
ishments. When  the  whip  went  out  of 
Bridewell,  and  ceased  to  be  flourished 
at  the  cart’s  tail  and  at  the  whipping- 
post, it  began  to  fade  out  of  madhouses, 
and  workhouses,  and  schools,  and  fami- 
lies, and  to  give  place  to  a better  sys- 
tem everywhere  than  cruel  driving. 
It  would  be  hasty,  because  a few 
brutes  may  be  inadequately  punished, 
to  revive,  in  any  aspect,  what,  in  so 
many  aspects,  society  is  hardly  yet 
happily  rid  of.  The  whip  is  a very 
contagious  kind  of  thing,  and  difficult 
to  confine  within  one  set  of  bounds. 
Utterly  abolish  punishment  by  fine,  — 
a barbarous  device,  quite  as  much  out 
of  date  as  wager  by  battle,  but  particu- 
larly connected  in  the  vulgar  mind  with 
this  class  of  offence,  — at  least  quadru- 
ple the  term  of  imprisonment  for  ag- 
gravated assaults,  — and  above  all  let 
us,  in  such  cases,  have  no  Pet  Prison- 
ing, vain-glorifying,  strong  soup,  and 
roasted  meats,  but  hard  work,  and  one 
unchanging  and  uncompromising  diet- 
ary of  bread  and  water,  well  or  ill ; 
and  we  shall  do  much  better  than  by 
going  down  into  the  dark  to  grope  for 
the  whip  among  the  rusty  fragments 
of  the  rack,  and  the  branding-iron, 
and  the  chains  and  gibbet  from  the 
public  roads,  and  the  weights  that 


362 


THE  POOR  RELATION'S  STORY. 


pressed  men  to  death  in  the  cells  of 
Newgate. 

I had  proceeded  thus  far,  when  I 
found  I had  been  lying  awake  so  long 
that  the  very  dead  began  to  wake  too, 
and  to  crowd  into  my  thoughts  most 


sorrowfully.  Therefore,  I resolved  to 
lie  awake  no  more,  but  to  get  up  and 
go  out  for  a night  walk, — which  reso- 
lution was  an  acceptable  relief  to  me, 
as  I dare  say  it  may  prove  now  to  a 
great  many  more. 


THE  POOR  RELATION’S  STORY. 


He  was  very  reluctant  to  take  prece- 
dence of  so  many  *espected  members 
of  the  family,  by  beginning  the  round  of 
stories  they  were  to  relate  as  they  sat  in 
a goodly  circle  by  the  Christmas  lire ; 
and  he  modestly  suggested  that  it  would 
be  more  correct  if  “John,  our  esteemed 
host,  ” (whose  health  he  begged  to 
drink,)  would  have  the  kindness  to  begin. 
For  as  to  himself,  he  said,  he  was  so 
little  used  to  lead  the  way  that  really  — 
But  as  they  all  cried  out  here,  that  he 
must  begin,  and  agreed  with  one  voice 
that  he  might,  could,  would,  and  should 
begin,  he  left  off  rubbing  his  hands,  and 
took  his  legs  out  from  under  his  arm- 
chair, and  did  begin. 

I have  no  doubt  (said  the  poor  rela- 
tion) that  I shall  surprise  the  assembled 
members  of  our  family,  and  particularly 
John,  our  esteemed  host,  to  whom  we 
are  so  much  indebted  for  the  great 
hospitality  with  which  he  has  this  day 
entertained  us,  by  the  confession  I am 
going  to  make.  But  if  you  do  me  the 
honor  to  be  surprised  at  anything  that 
falls  from  a person  so  unimportant  in 
the  family  as  I am,  I can  only  say  that 
I shall  be  scrupulously  accurate  in  all  I 
relate. 

I am  not  what  I am  supposed  to  be. 

I am  quite  another  thing.'  Perhaps, 
before  I go  further,  I had  better  glance 
at  what  I am  supposed  10  be. 

It  is  supposed,  unless  I mistake,  — the 
assembled  members  of  our  family  will 
correct  me  if  I do,  which  is  very  likely 
(here  the  poor  relation  looked  mildly 
about  him  for  contradiction),  — that  I 


am  nobody’s  enemy  but  my  own.  That 
I never  met  w’ith  any  particular  success 
in  anything.  That  I failed  in  business 
because  I was  unbusiness-like  and  cred- 
ulous, — in  not  being  prepared  for  the 
interested  designs  of  my  partner.  That 
I failed  in  love,  because  I was  ridicu- 
lously trustful,  — in  thinking  it  impossi- 
ble that  Christiana  could  deceive  me. 
That  I failed  in  my  expectations  from 
my  uncle  Chill,  on  account  of  not  being 
as  sharp  as  he  could  have  wished  in 
worldly  matters.  That,  through  life,  I 
have  been  rather  put  upon  and  disap- 
pointed in  a general  way.  That  I am 
at  present  a bachelor  of  between  fifty- 
nine  and  sixty  years  of  age,  living  on  a 
limited  income  in  the  form  of  a quarter- 
ly allowance,  to  which  I see  that  John, 
our  esteemed  host,  wishes  me  to  make 
no  further  allusion. 

The  supposition  as  to  my  present 
pursuits  and  habits  is  to  the  following 
effect. 

I live  in  a lodging  in  the  Clapham 
Road,  — a very  clean  back  room,  in  a 
very  respectable  house,  — where  I am 
expected  not  to  be  at  home  in  the  day- 
time, unless  poorly  ; and  which  I usu- 
ally leave  in  the  morning  at  nine  o’clock, 
on  pretence  of  going  to  business.  I 
take  my  breakfast  — my  roll  and  butter, 
and  my  half-pint  of  coffee  — at  the  old 
established  coffee-shop  near  Westmin- 
ster Bridge  ; and  then  I go  into  the 
City  — I don’t  know  why  — and  sit 
in  Garraway’s  Coffee-House,  and  on 
’Change,  and  walk  about,  and  look  into 
a few  offices  and  counting-houses  where 


THE  POOR  RELATION’S  STORK 


363 


some  of  my  relations  or  acquaintance 
are  so  good  as  to  tolerate  me,  and  where 
I stand  by  the  fire  if  the  weather  hap- 
pens to  be  cold.  I get  through  the  day 
m this  way  until  five  o’clock,  and  then 
I dine,  at  a cost,  on  the  average,  of 
one  and  threepence.  Having  still  a 
little  money  to  spend  on  my  evening’s 
entertainment,  I look  into  the  old  es- 
tablished coffee-shop  as  I go  home,  and 
take  my  cup  of  tea,  and  perhaps  my  bit 
of  toast.  So,  as  the  large  hand  of  the 
clock  makes  its  way  round  to  the  morn- 
ing hour  again,  I make  my  way  round 
to  Clapham  Road  again,  and  go  to  bed 
when  I get  to  my  lodging,  — fire  being 
expensive,  and  being  objected  to  by  the 
family  on  account  of  its  giving  trouble 
and  making  a dirt. 

Sometimes,  one  of  my  relations  or 
acquaintances  is  so  obliging  as  to  ask 
me  to  dinner.  Those  are  holiday  occa- 
sions ; and  then  I generally  walk  in  the 
Park.  I am  a solitary  man,  and  seldom 
walk  with  anybody.  Not  that  I am 
avoided  because  I am  shabby  ; for  I am 
not  at  all  shabby,  having  always  a very 
good  suit  of  black  on  (or  rather  Oxford 
mixture,  which  has  the  appearance  of 
black  and  wears  much  better)  ; but  I 
have  got  into  a habit  of  speaking  low, 
and  being  rather  silent,  and  my  spirits 
are  not  high,  and  I am  sensible  that  I 
am  not  an  attractive  companion. 

The  only  exception  to  this  general 
rule  is  the  child  of  my  first  cousin,  Lit- 
tle Frank.  I have  a particular  affec- 
tion for  that  child,  and  he  takes  very 
kindly  to  me.  He  is  a diffident  boy  by 
nature  ; and  in  a crowd  he  is  soon  run 
over,  as  I may  say,  and  forgotten.  He 
and  I,  however,  get  on  exceedingly 
well.  I have  a fancy  that  the  poor  child 
will  in  time  succeed  to  my  peculiar  po- 
sition in  the  family.  We  talk  but  little  ; 
still,  we  understand  each  other.  We 
walk  about,  hand-in-hand  ; and  with- 
out much  speaking  he  knows  what  I 
mean,  and  I know  what  he  means. 
When  he  was  very  little  indeed,  I used 
to  fake  him  to  the  windows  of  the  toy- 
shops, and  show  him  the  toys  inside. 
It  is  surprising  how  soon  he  found  out 
that  I would  have  made  him  a great 
many  presents  if  I had  been  in  circum- 
stances to  do  it. 


Little  Frank  and  I go  and  look  at  the 
outside  of  the  Monument,  — he  is  very 
fond  of  the  Monument, — and  at  the 
Bridges,  and  at  all  the  sights  that  are 
free.  On  two  of  my  birthdays,  we 
have  dined  on  a-la-mode  beef,  and 
gone  at  half-price  to  the  play,  and  been 
deeply  interested.  I was  once  walking 
with  him  in  Lombard  Street,  which  we 
often  visit  on  account  of  my  having 
mentioned  to  him  that  there  are  great 
riches  there,  — he  is  very  fond  of  Lom- 
bard Street,  — when  a gentleman  said 
to  me  as  he  passed  by,  “ Sir,  your  little 
son  has  dropped  his  glove.”  I assure 
you,  if  you  will  excuse  my  remarking 
on  so  trivial  a circumstance,  this  acci- 
dental mention  of  the  child  as  mine 
quite  touched  my  heart  and  brought 
the  foolish  tears  into  my  eyes. 

When  little  Frank  is  sent  to  school  in 
the  country,  I shall  be  very  much  at  a 
loss  what  to  do  with  myself,  but  1 have 
the  intention  of  walking  down  there 
once  a month  and  seeing  him  on  a half- 
holiday. I am  told  he  will  then  be  at 
play  upon  the  Heath  ; and  if  my  visits 
should  be  objected  to,  as  unsettling  the 
child,  I can  see  him  from  a distance 
without  his  seeing  me,  and  walk  back 
again.  His  mother  comes  of  a highly 
genteel  family,  and  rather  disapproves, 
I am  aware,  of  our  being  too  much  to- 
gether. I know  that  1 am  not  calculat- 
ed to  improve  his  retiring  disposition  ; 
but  I think  he  would  miss  me  beyond 
the  feeling  of  the  moment,  if  we  were 
wholly  separated. 

When  I die  in  the  Clapham  Road,  I 
shall  not  leave  much  more  in  this  world 
than  I shall  take  out  of  it  ; but  I happen 
to  have  a miniature  of  a bright-faced 
boy,  with  a curling  head,  and  an  open 
shirt-frill  waving  down  his  bosom  (my 
mother  had  it  taken  for  me,  but  I can’t 
believe  that  it  was  ever  like),  which 
will  be  worth  nothing  to  sell,  and  which 
I shall  beg  may  be  given  to  Frank.  I 
have  written  my  dear  boy  a little  letter 
with  it,  in  which  I have  told  him  that  I 
felt  very  sorry  to  part  from  him,  though 
bound  to  confess  that  I knew  no  reason 
why  I should  remain  here.  I have 
given  him  some  short  advice,  the  best 
in  my  power,  to  take  warning  of  the 
consequences  of  being  nobody’s  enemy 


THE  POOR  RELATION'S  STORV. 


364 

but  his  own  ; and  I have  endeavored 
to  comfort  him  for  what  I fear  he  will 
consider  a bereavement,  by  pointing 
out  to  him,  that  I was  only  a superflu- 
ous something  to  every  one  but  him  ; 
and  that,  having  by  some  means  failed 
to  find  a place  in  this  great  assembly,  I 
am  better  out  of  it. 

Such  (said  the  poor  relation,  clearing 
his  throat  and  beginning  to  speak  a 
little  louder)  is  the  general  impression 
about  me.  Now,  it  is  a remarkable 
circumstance,  which  forms  the  aim  and 
purpose  of  my  story,  that  this  is  all 
wrong.  This  is  not  my  life,  and  these 
are  not  my  habits.  I do  not  even  live 
in  the  Clapham  Road.  Comparatively 
speaking,  I am  very  seldom  there.  I 
reside,  mostly,  in  a — I am  almost 
ashamed  to  say  the  word,  it  sounds  so 
full  of  pretension  — in  a Castle.  I do 
not  mean  that  it  is  an  old  baronial  habi- 
tation, but  still  it  is  a building  always 
known  to  every  one  by  the  name  of  a 
Castle.  In  it,  I preserve  the  particulars 
of  my  history  ; they  run  thus  : — 

It  was  when  I first  took  John  Spatter 
(who  had  been  my  clerk)  into  partner- 
ship, and  when  I was  still  a young  man 
of  not  more  than  five-and-twenty,  re- 
siding in  the  house  of  my  uncle  Chill 
from  whom  I had  considerable  expecta- 
tions, that  I ventured  to  propose  to 
Christiana.  I had  loved  Christiana  a 
long  time.  She  was  very  beautiful,  and 
very  winning  in  all  respects.  I rather 
mistrusted  her  widowed  mother,  who  I 
feared  was  of  a plotting  and  mercenary 
turn  of  mind  ; but  I thought  as  well  of 
her  as  I could,  for  Christiana’s  sake. 
I never  had  loved  any  one  but  Chris- 
tiana, and  she  had  been  all  the  world, 
and  O,  far  more  than  all  the  world,  to 
me,  from  our  childhood  ! 

Christiana  accepted  me  with  her 
mother’s  consent,  and  I was  rendered 
very  happy  indeed.  My  life  at  my  un- 
cle Chill’s  was  of  a spare,  dull  kind,  and 
my  garret  chamber  was  as  dull,  and 
bare,  and  cold  as  an  upper  prison  room 
in  some  stern  northern  fortress.  But, 
having  Christiana’s  love,  I wanted  noth- 
ing upon  earth.  I would  not  have 
changed  my  lot  with  any  human  being. 

Avarice  was,  unhappily,  my  uncle 
Chill’s  master-vice.  Though  he  was 


rich,  he  pinched  and  scraped  and 
clutched,  and  lived  miserably.  As 
Christiana  had  no  fortune,  I was  for 
some  time  a little  fearful  of  confessing 
our  engagement  to  him ; but  at  length 
I wrote  him  a letter,  saying  how  it  all 
truly  was.  I put  it  into  his  hand  one 
night,  on  going  to  bed. 

As  I came  down  stairs  next  morning, 
shivering  in  the  cold  December  air, 
colder  in  my  uncle’s  unwarmed  house 
than  in  the  street,  where  the  winter 
sun  did  sometimes  shine,  and  which 
was  at  all  events  enlivened  by  cheerful 
faces  and  voices  passing  along,  I car- 
ried a heavy  heart  towards  the  long, 
low  breakfast-rodhi  in  which  my  uncle 
sat.  It  was  a large  room  with  a small 
fire,  and  there  was  a great  bay-window 
in  it  which  the  rain  had  marked  in  the 
night  as  if  with  the  tears  of  houseless 
people.  It  stared  upon  a raw  yard, 
with  a cracked  stone  pavement,  and 
some  rusted  iron  railings  half  uprooted, 
whence  an  ugly  out-building  that  had 
once  been  a dissecting-room  (in  the  time 
of  the  great  surgeon  who  had  mort- 
gaged the  house  to  my  uncle)  stared 
at  it. 

We  rose  so  early  always,  that  at  that 
time  of  the  year  we  breakfasted  by  can- 
dle-light. When  I went  into  the  room 
my  uncle  was  so  contracted  by  the  cold, 
and  so  huddled  together  in  his  chair  be- 
hind the  one  dim  candle,  that  I did  not 
see  him  until  I was  close  to  the  table. 

As  I held  out  my  hand  to  him,  he 
caught  up  his  stick  (being  infirm,  he  al- 
ways walked  about  the  house  with  a 
stick),  and  made  a blow  at  me,  and 
said,  “ You  fool ! ” 

“ Uncle,”  I returned,  “ I didn’t  ex- 
ect  you  to  be  so  angry  as  this.”  Nor 
ad  I expected  it,  though  he  was  a hard 
and  angry  old  man. 

“ You  did  n’t  expect  ! ” said  he  ; 
“when  did  you  ever  expect?  When 
did  you  ever  calculate,  or  look  forward, 
you  contemptible  dog  ? ” 

“ These  are  hard  words,  uncle  ! ** 
“Hard  words?  Feathers,  to  pelt 
such  an  idiot  as  you  with,”  said  he. 
“ Here  ! Betsy  Snap  ! Look  at  him  ! ” 
Betsy  Snap  was  a withered,  hard- 
favored,  yellow  old  woman,  — our  only 
domestic,  — always  employed,  at  this 


THE  POOR  RELATION’S  STORY. 


36j 


time  of  the  morning,  in  rubbing  my  un- 
cle’s legs.  As  my  uncle  adjured  her  to 
look  at  me,  he  put  his  lean  grip  on  the 
crown  of  her  head,  she  kneeling  beside 
him,  and  turned  her  face  towards  me. 
An  involuntary  thought  connecting  them 
both  with  the  dissecting-room,  as  it 
must  have  been  in  the  surgeon’s  time, 
passed  across  my  mind  in  the  midst  of 
my  anxiety. 

“ Look  at  the  snivelling  milksop  ! ” 
said  my  uncle.  “ Look  at  the  baby  ! 
This  is  the  gentleman  who,  people  say, 
is  nobody’s  enemy  but  his  own.  This 
’is  the  gentleman  who  can’t  say  no. 
This  is  the  gentleman  who  was  making 
such  large  profits  in  his  business  that 
he  must  needs  take  a partner,  t’other 
day.  This  is  the  gentleman  who  is 
going  to  marry  a wife  without  a penny, 
and  who  falls  into  the  hands  of  Jezebels 
who  are  speculating  on  my  death  ! ” 

I knew,  now,  how  great  my  uncle’s 
rage  was  ; for  nothing  short  of  his  being 
almost  beside  himself  would  have  in- 
duced him  to  utter  that  concluding 
word,  which  he  held  in  such  repug- 
nance that  it  was  never  spoken  or  hinted 
at  before  him  on  any  account. 

“ On  my  death,”  he  repeated,  as  if  he 
were  defying  me  by  defying  his  own  ab- 
horrence of  the  word.  “ On  my  death 
— death  — Death  ! But  I ’ll  spoil  the 
speculation.  Eat  your  last  under  this 
roof,  you  feeble  wretch,  and  may  it 
choke  you  ! ” 

You  may  suppose  that  I had  not  much 
appetite  for  the  breakfast  to  which  I 
was  bidden  in  these  terms  ; but  I took 
my  accustomed  seat.  I saw  that  I was 
repudiated  henceforth  by  my  uncle ; 
still  I could  bear  that  very  well,  pos- 
sessing Christiana’s  heart. 

He  emptied  his  basin  of  bread  and 
milk  as  usual,  only  that  he  took  it  on 
his  knees  with  his  chair  turned  away 
from  the  table  where  I sat.  When  he 
had  done,  he  carefully  snuffed  out  the 
candle  ; and  the  cold,  slate-colored, 
miserable  day  looked  in  upon  us. 

“Now,  Mr.  Michael,”  said  he,  “be- 
fore we  part,  I should  like  to  have  a 
word  with  these  ladies  in  your  pres- 
ence.” 

“ As  you  will,  sir,”  I returned  ; “ but 
you  deceive  yourself,  and  wrong  us 


cruelly,  if  you  suppose  that  there  is  anj 
feeling  at  stake  in  this  contract  but  pure 
disinterested,  faithful  love.” 

To  this  he  only  replied,  “ You  lie  ! *' 
and  not  one  other  word. 

We  went,  through  half-thawed  snow 
and  half-frozen  rain,  to  the  house  where 
Christiana  and  her  mother  lived.  My 
uncle  knew  them  very  well.  They  were 
sitting  at  their  breakfast,  and  were  sur- 
prised to  see  us  at  that  hour. 

“Your  servant,  ma’am,”  said  my 
uncle  to  the  mother.  “You  divine  the 
purpose  of  my  visit,  I dare  say,  ma’am. 
I understand  there  is  a world  of  pure, 
disinterested,  faithful  love  cooped  up 
here.  I am  happy  to  bring  it  all  il; 
wants,  to  make  it  complete.  I bring 
you  your  son-in-law,  ma’am,  — and  you., 
your  husband,  miss.  The  gentleman  is 
a perfect  stranger  to  me,  but  I wish  him 
joy  of  his  wise  bargain.” 

He  snarled  at  me  as  he  went  out, 
and  I never  saw  him  again. 

It  is  altogether  a mistake  (continued 
the  poor  relation)  to  suppose  that  my 
dear  Christiana,  over-persuaded  and  in- 
fluenced by  her  mother,  married  a rich 
man,  the  dirt  from  whose  carriage  wheelg 
is  often,  in  these  changed  times,  thrown 
upon  me  as  she  rides  by.  No,  no.  She 
married  me. 

The  way  we  came  to  be  married  rathei 
sooner  than  we  intended  was  this.  J 
took  a frugal  lodging  and  was  saving 
and  planning  for  her  sake,  when,  on; 
day,  she  spoke  to  me  with  great  earnest 
ness,  and  said  : — 

“ My  dear  Michael,  I have  given  you 
my  heart.  I have  said  that  I loved  you, 
and  I have  pledged  myself  to  be  your 
wife.  I am  as  much  yours  through  all 
changes  of  good  and  evil  as  if  we  had 
been  married  on  the  day  when  such 
words  passed  between  us.  I know  youi 
well,  and  know  that  if  we  should  be< 
separated  and  our  union  broken  off 
your  whole  life  would  be  shadowed,  andl 
all  that  might,  even  now,  be  stronger  ir, 
your  character  for  the  conflict  with  the, 
world  would  then  be  weakened  to  the, 
shadow  of  what  it  is  ! ” 

“God  help  me,  Christiana!”  said  I, 
“ You  speak  the  truth.” 

“ Micliael ! ” said  she,  putting  hei 


366 


THE  POOR  RELATION'S  STORY. 


hand  in  mine,  in  all  maidenly  devotion, 
“ let  us  keep  apart  no  longer.  It  is  but 
for  me  to  say  that  I can  live  contented 
upon  such  means  as  you  have,  and  I 
well  know  you  are  happy.  I say  so 
from  my  heart.  Strive  no  more  alone  ; 
let  us  strive  together.  My  dear  Mi- 
chael, it  is  not  right  that  I should  keep 
secret  from  you  what  you  do  not  sus- 
pect, but  what  distresses  my  whole  life. 
My  mother,  without  considering  that 
what  you  have  lost,  you  have  lost  for 
me,  and  on  the  assurance  of  my  faith, 
sets  her  heart  on  riches,  and  urges  an- 
other suit  upon  me,  to  my  misery.  I 
cannot  bear  this,  for  to  bear  it  is  to  be 
untrue  to  you.  I would  rather  share 
our  struggles  than  look  on.  I want  no 
etter  home  than  you  can  give  me.  I 
know  that  you  will  aspire  and  labor  with 
a higher  courage  if  I am  wholly  yours, 
and  let  it  be  so  when  you  will ! ” 

I was  blest  indeed,  that  day,  and  a 
new  world  opened  to  me.  We  were 
married  in  a very  little  while,  and  I took 
my  wife  to  our  happy  home.  That  was 
the  beginning  of  the  residence  I have 
spoken  of ; the  Castle  we  have  ever 
since  inhabited  together  dates  from  that 
time.  All  our  children  have  been  born 
in  it.  Our  first  child  — now  married  — 
was  a little  girl,  whom  we  called  Chris- 
tiana. Her  son  is  so  like  Little  Frank 
that  I hardly  know  which  is  which. 

The  current  impression  as  to  my  part- 
ner’s dealings  with  me  is  also  quite 
erroneous.  He  did  not  begin  to  treat 
me  coldly,  as  a poor  simpleton,  when 
my  uncle  and  I so  fatally  quarrelled  ; 
nor  did  he  afterwards  gradually  possess 
himself  of  our  business  and  edge  me 
out.  On  the  contrary,  he  behaved  to 
me  with  the  utmost  good  faith  and 
honor. 

Matters  between  us  took  this  turn  : 
On  the  day  of  my  separation  from  my 
uncle,  and  even  before  the  arrival  at 
our  counting-house  of  my  trunks  (which 
he  sent  after  me,  not  carriage-paid),  I 
went  down  to  our  room  of  business,  on 
our  little  wharf,  overlooking  the  river; 
and  there  I told  John  Spatter  what  had 
happened.  John  did  not  say,  in  reply, 
that  rich  old  relatives  were  palpable 
facts,  and  that  love  and  sentiment  were 


moonshine  and  fiction.  He  addressed 
me  thus ; — 

“Michael,”  said  John.  “We  were 
at  school  .together,  and  I.  generally  had 
the  knack  of  getting  on  better  than  you, 
and  making  a higher  reputation.” 

“ You  had,  John,”  I returned. 
“Although,”  said  John,  “I  borrowed 
your  books  and  lost  them ; borrowed 
your  pocket-money,  and  never  repaid 
it;  got  you  to  buy  my  damaged  knives 
at  a higher  price  than  I had  given  for 
them  new ; and  to  own  to  the  windows 
that  I had  broken  — ” 

“ All  not  worth  mentioning,  John 
Spatter,”  said  I,  “ but  certainly  true.” 
“When  you  w*ere  first  established  in 
this  infant  business,  which  promises  to 
thrive  so  well,”  pursued  John,  “ I came 
to  you,  in  my  search  for  almost  any  em- 
ployment, and  you  made  me  your  clerk.” 
“ Still  not  worth  mentioning,  my  dear 
John  Spatter,”  said  I;  “still  equally 
true.” 

“ And  finding  that  I had  a good 
head  for  business,  and  that  I was  really 
useful  to  the  business,  you  did  not  like 
to  retain  me  in  that  capacity,  and 
thought  it  an  act  of  justice  soon  to 
make  me  your  partner.” 

“ Still  less  worth  mentioning  than 
any  of  those  other  little  circumstances 
you  have  recalled,  John  Spatter,  ” said 
I ; “ for  I was,  and  am,  sensible  of 
your  merits  and  my  deficiencies.” 
“Now,  my  good  friend,”  said  John, 
drawing  my  arm  through  his,  as  he  had 
had  a habit  of  doing  at  school ; while 
two  vessels  outside  the  windows  of  our 
counting-house  — which  were  shaped 
like  the  stern  windows  of  a ship  — went 
lightly  down  the  river  with  the  tide,  as 
John  and  I might  then  be  sailing  away 
in  company,  and  in  trust  and  confi- 
dence, on  our  voyage  of  life ; “ let 
there,  under  these  friendly  circumstan- 
ces, be  a right  understanding  between 
us.  You  are  too  easy,  Michael.  You 
are  nobody’s  enemy  but  your  own.  If 
I were  to  give  you  that  damaging  char- 
acter among  our  connection,  with  a 
shrug,  and  a shake  of  the  head,  and  a 
sigh ; and  if  I were  further  to  abuse  the 
trust  you  place  in  me  — ” 

“ But  you  never  will  abuse  it  at  all, 
John,”  I observed. 


THE  POOR  RELATION'S  STORY. 


367 


“ Never  ! ” said  he,  “ but  I am  put- 
ting a case  ; I say,  and  if  I were  fur- 
ther to  abuse  that  trust  by  keeping  this 
piece  of  our  common  affairs  in  the  dark, 
and  this  other  piece  in  the  light,  and 
again  this  other  piece  in  the  twilight, 
and  so  on,  I should  strengthen  my 
strength,  and  weaken  your  weakness, 
day  by  day,  until  at  last  I found  myself 
on  the  high-road  to  fortune,  and  you 
left  behind  on  some  bare  common,  a 
hopeless  number  of  miles  out  of  the 
way.” 

“ Exactly  so,”  said  I. 

. “ To  prevent  this,  Michael,”  said 
John  Spatter,  “or  the  remotest  chance 
of  this,  there  must  be  perfect  openness 
between  us.  Nothing  must  be  con- 
cealed, and  we  must  have  but  one  in- 
terest.” 

“ My  dear  John  Spatter,”  I assured 
him,  “that  is  precisely  what  I mean.” 

“And  when  you  are  too  easy,”  pur- 
sued John,  his  face  glowing  with  friend- 
ship, “ you  must  allow  me  to  prevent 
that  imperfection  in  your  nature  from 
being  taken  advantage  of  by  any  one  ; 
you  must  not  expect  me  to  humor  it  — ” 

“My  dear  John  Spatter,”  I inter- 
rupted, “ I don't  expect  you  to  humor 
it.  I want  to  correct  it.” 

“ And  I,  too  ! ” said  John. 

“Exactly  so!”  cried  I.  “We  both 
have  the  same  end  in  view ; and,  hon- 
orably seeking  it,  and  fully  trusting  one 
another,  and  having  but  one  interest, 
ours  will  be  a prosperous  and  happy 
partnership.” 

“ I am  sure  of  it ! ” returned  John 
Spatter.  And  we  shook  hands  most 
affectionately. 

I took  John  home  to  my  Castle,  and 
we  had  a very  happy  day.  Our  part- 
nership throve  well.  My  friend  and 
partner  supplied  what  I wanted,  as  I 
had  foreseen  that  he  would  ; and  by 
improving  both  the  business  and  my- 
self, amply  acknowledged  any  little  rise 
in  life  to  which  I had  helped  him. 

I am  not  (said  the  poor  relation,  look- 
ing at  the  fire  as  he  slowly  rubbed  his 
hands)  very  rich,  for  I never  cared  to 
be  that  ; but  I have  enough,  and  am 
above  all  moderate  wants  and  anxieties. 
My  Castle  is  not  a splendid  place,  but 


it  is  very  comfortable,  and  it  has  a 
warm  and  cheerful  air,  and  is  quite  a 
picture  of  Home. 

Our  eldest  girl,  who  is  very  like  her 
mother,  married  John  Spatter’s  eldest 
son.  Our  two  families  tfre  closely  unit- 
ed in  other  ties  of  attachment.  It  is 
very  pleasant  of  an  evening,  when  we 
are  all  assembled  together,  — which  fre- 
quently happens,  — and  when  John  and 
I talk  over  old  times,  and  the  one  in  • 
terest  there  has  always  been  between  us. 

I really  do  not  know,  in  my  Castle, 
what  loneliness  is.  Some  of  our  children 
or  grandchildren  are  always  about  it, 
and  the  young  voices  of  my  descend- 
ants are  delightful  — O,  how  delight- 
ful! — to  me  to  hear.  My  dearest  and 
most  devoted  wife,  ever  faithful,  ever 
loving,  ever  helpful  and  sustaining  and 
consoling,  is  the  priceless  blessing  of 
my  house,  from  whom  all  its  other 
blessings  spring.  We  are  rather  a mu- 
sical family,  and  when  Christiana  sees 
me,  at  any  time,  a little  weary  or  de- 
pressed, she  steals  to  the  piano  and 
sings  a gentle  air  she  used  to  sing  when 
we  were  first  betrothed.  So  weak  a 
man  am  I,  that  I cannot  bear  to  hear  it 
from  any  other  source.  They  played  it 
once,  at  the  theatre,  when  I was  there 
with  little  Frank;  and  the  child  said, 
wondering,  “ Cousin  Michael,  whose 
hot  tears  are  these  that  have  fallen  on 
my  hand  ! ” 

Such  is  my  Castle,  and  such  are  the 
real  particulars  of  my  life  therein  pre- 
served. I often  take  Little  Frank  home 
there.  He  is  very  welcome  to  my  grand- 
children, and  they  play  together.  At 
this  time  of  the  year — the  Christmas 
and  New-Year  time  — I am  seldom  out 
of  my  Castle.  For  the  associations  of 
the  season  seem  to  hold  me  there,  and 
the  precepts  of  the  season  seem  to 
teach  me  that  it  is  well  to  be  there. 

“And  the  Castle  is  — ” observed  a 
grave,  kind  voice  among  the  company. 

“Yes.  My  Castle,”  said  the  poor 
relation,  shaking  his  head  as  he  still 
looked  at  the  fire,  “is  in  the  Air. 
John,  our  esteemed  host,  suggests  its 
situation  accurately.  My  Castle  is  in 
the  Air  ! I have  done.  Will  you  be 
so  good  as  to  pass  the  story.” 


368 


THE  CHILD'S  STORY. 


THE  CHILD’S  STORY. 


Once  upon  a time,  a good  many 
years  ago,  there  was  a traveller,  and  he 
set  out  upon  a journey.  It  was  a magic 
journey,  and  was  to  seem  very  long 
when  he  began  it,  and  very  short  when 
he  got  half-way  through. 

He  travelled  along  a rather  dark  path 
for  some  little  time,  without  meeting 
anything,  until  at  last  he  came  to  a 
beautiful  child.  So  he  said  to  the  child, 
“What  do  you  do  here?”  And  the 
child  said,  “ I am  always  at  play. 
Come  and  play  with  me  ! ” 

So  he  played  with  that  child,  the 
whole  day  long,  and  they  were  very 
merry.  The  sky  was  so  blue,  the  sun 
was  so  bright,  the  water  was  so  spark- 
ling, the  leaves  were  so  green,  the 
flowers  were  so  lovely,  and  they  heard 
such  singing-birds  and  saw  so  many 
butterflies,  that  everything  was  beauti- 
ful. This  was  in  fine  weather.  When 
it  rained,  they  loved  to  watch  the  fall- 
ing drops,  and  to  smell  the  fresh  scents. 
When  it  blew,  it  was  delightful  to  listen 
to  the  wind,  and  fancy  what  it  said,  as 
it  came  rushing  from  its  home  — where 
was  that,  they  wondered  ! — whistling 
and  howling,  driving  the  clouds  before 
it,  bending  the  trees,  rumbling  in  the 
chimneys,  shaking  the  house,  and  mak- 
ing the  sea  roar  in  fury.  But  when  it 
snowed,  that  was  best  of  all ; for  they 
liked  nothing  so  well  as  to  look  up  at 
the  white  flakes  falling  fast  and  thick, 
like  down  from  the  breasts  of  millions 
of  white  birds  ; and  to  see  how  smooth 
and  deep  the  drift  was  ; and  to  listen  to 
the  hush  upon  the  paths  and  roads. 

They  had  plenty  of  the  finest  toys  in 
the  world,  and  the  most  astonishing  pic- 
ture-books,— all  about  scymitars  and 
slippers  and  turbans,  and  dwarfs  and 
giants  and  genii  and  fairies,  and  blue- 
beards  and  bean-stalks  and  riches  and 
caverns  and  forests  and  Valentines  and 
Orsons,  — and  all  new  and  all  true. 

But,  one  day,  of  a sudden,  the  travel- 


ler lost  the  child.  He  called  to  him 
over  and  over  again,  but  got  no  answer. 
So  he  went  upon  his  road,  and  went  on 
for  a little  while  without  meeting  any- 
thing, until  at  last  he  came  to  a hand- 
some boy.  So,  he  said  to  the  boy, 
“ What  do  you  do  here  ? ” And  the  boy 
said,  “ I am  always  learning.  Come 
and  learn  with  Ae.” 

So  he  learned  with  that  boy  about 
Jupiter  and  Juno,  and  the  Greeks  and 
the  Romans,  and  I don’t  know  what, 
and  learned  more  than  I could  tell,  — or 
he  either,  for  he  soon  forgot  a great 
deal  of  it.  But  they  were  not  always 
learning : they  had  the  merriest  games 
that  ever  were  played.  They  rowed 
upon  the  river  in  summer,  and  skated 
on  the  ice  in  winter ; they  were  active 
afoot,  and  active  on  horseback ; at 
cricket,  and  all  games  at  ball ; at  pris- 
oners’ base,  hare  and  hounds,  follow  my 
leader,  and  more  sports  than  I can 
think  of;  nobody  could  beat  them. 
They  had  holidays  too,  and  Twelfth 
cakes,  and  parties  where  they  danced 
till  midnight,  and  real  theatres  where 
they  saw  palaces  of  real  gold  and  silver 
rise  out  of  the  real  earth,  and  saw  all 
the  wonders  of  the  world  at  once.  As 
to  friends,  they  had  such  dear  friends 
and  so  many  of  them,  that  I want  the 
time  to  reckon  them  up.  They  were 
all  young,  like  the  handsome  boy,  and 
were  never  to  be  strange  to  one  another 
all  their  lives  through. 

Still,  one  day,  in  the  midst  of  all 
these  pleasures,  the  traveller  lost  the 
boy  as  he  had  lost  the  child,  and,  after 
calling  to  him  in  vain,  went  on  upon  his 
journey.  So  he  went  on  for  a little 
while  without  seeing  anything,  until  at 
last  he  came  to  a young  man.  So  he 
said  to  the  young  man,  “What  do  you 
do  here?”  And  the  young  man  said, 
“ I am  always  in  love.  Come  and  love 
with  me.” 

So  he  went  away  with  that  young 


THE  CHILD'S  STORY. 


369 


man,  and  presently  they  came  to  one  of 
the  prettiest  girls  that  ever  was  seen,  — 
just  like  Fanny  in  the  corner  there, — 
and  she  had  eyes  like  Fanny,  and  hair 
like  Fanny,  and  dimples  like  Fanny’s, 
and  she  laughed  and  colored  just  as 
Fanny  d<5es  while  I am  talking  about 
her.  So  the  young  man  fell  in  love  di- 
rectly, — just  as  Somebody  I won’t  men- 
tion, the  first  time  he  came  here,  did 
with  Fanny.  Well  ! He  was  teased 
sometimes,  — just  as  Somebody  used  to 
be  by  Fanny ; and  they  quarrelled  some- 
times,— just  as  Somebody  and  Fanny 
used  to  quarrel  ; and  they  made  it  up, 
and  sat  in  the  dark,  and  wrote  letters 
every  day,  and  never  were  happy  asun- 
der, and  were  always  looking  out  for 
one  another  and  pretending  not  to,  and 
were  engaged  at  Christmas  time,  and 
sat  close  to  one  another  by  the  fire,  and 
were  going  to  be  married  very  soon,  — 
all  exactly  like  Somebody  I won’t  men- 
tion and  Fanny ! 

But  the  traveller  lost  them  one  day, 
as  he  had  lost  the  rest  of  his  friends, 
and,  after  calling  to  them  to  come  back, 
which  they  never  did,  went  on  upon  his 
journey.  So  he  went  on  for  a little 
while  without  seeing  anything,  until  at 
last  he  came  to  a middle-aged  gentle- 
man. So  he  said  to  the  gentleman, 
“What  are  you  doing  here?”  And 
his  answer  was,  “I  am  always  busy. 
Come  and  be  busy  with  me  ! ” 

So  he  began  to  be  very  busy  with  that 
gentleman,  and  they  went  on  through 
the  wood  together.  The  whole  journey 
was  through  a wood,  only  it  had  been 
open  and  green  at  first,  like  a wood  in 
spring,  and  now  began  to  be  thick  and 
dark,  like  a wood  in  summer ; some  of 
the  little  trees  that  had  come  out  earliest 
were  even  turning  brown.  The  gentle- 
man was  not  alone,  but  had  a lady  of 
about  the  same  age  with  him,  who  was 
his  wife  ; and  they  had  children,  who 
were  with  them  too.  So  they  all  went  on 
together  through  the  wood,  cutting  down 
the  trees,  and  making  a path  through 
the  branches  and  the  fallen  leaves,  and 
carrying  burdens,  and  working  hard. 

Sometimes  they  came  to  a long  green 
avenue  that  opened  into  deeper  woods. 
Then  they  would  hear  a very  little  dis- 
tant voice  crying,  “ Father,  father,  I am 
24 


another  child  ! Stop  for  me  ! ” And 
presently  they  would  see  a very  little 
figure,  growing  larger  as  it  came  along, 
running  to  join  them.  When  it  came 
up,  they  all  crowded  round  it,  and 
kissed  and  welcomed  it ; and  then  they 
all  went  on  together. 

Sometimes  they  came  to  several  ave- 
nues at  once,  and  then  they  all  stood 
still,  and  one  of  the  children  said, 
“ Father,  I am  going  to  sea,”  and 
another  said,  “Father,  I am  going 
to  India,”  and  another,  “ Father,  I am 
going  to  seek  my  fortune  where  I can,” 
and  another,  “Father,  I am  going  to 
Heaven ! ” So,  with  many  tears  at 
parting,  they  went,  solitary,  down  those 
avenues,  each  child  upon  its  way ; and 
the  child  who  went  to  Heaven  rose 
into  the  golden  air  and  vanished. 

Whenever  these  partings  happened, 
the  traveller  looked  at  the  gentleman, 
and  saw  him  glance  up  at  the  sky  above 
the  trees,  where  the  day  was  beginning 
to  decline,  and  the  sunset  to  come  on. 
He  saw,  too,  that  his  hair  was  turning 
gray.  But  they  never  could  rest  long, 
for  they  had  their  journey  to  perform, 
and  it  was  necessary  for  them  to  be 
always  busy. 

At  last,  there  had  been  so  many  part- 
ings that  there  were  no  children  left,  and 
only  the  traveller,  the  gentleman,  and 
the  lady  went  upon  their  way  in  com- 
pany. And  now  the  wood  was  yellow ; 
and  now  brown  ; and  the  leaves,  even 
of  the  forest  trees,  began  to  fall. 

So  they  came  to  an  avenue  that  was 
darker  than  the  rest,  and  were  pressing 
forward  on  their  journey,  without  looking 
down  it,  when  the  lady  stopped. 

“My  husband,”  said  the  lady,  “ I 
am  called.” 

They  listened,  and  they  heard  a voice 
a long  way  down  the  avenue  say, 
“ Mother,  mother  ! ” 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  first  child  who 
had  said,  “ I am  going  to  Heaven  ! ” 
and  the  father  said,  “ I pray  not  yet. 
The  sunset  is  very  near.  I pray  not 
yet  I ” 

But  the  voice  cried,  “Mother,  moth- 
er!”  without  minding  him,  though  his 
hair  was  now  quite  white,  and  tears  were 
on  his  face. 

Then  the  mother,  who  was  already 


370 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY'S  STORY. 


drawn  into  the  shade  of  the  dark  avenue 
and  moving  away  with  her  arms  still 
round  his  neck,  kissed  him,  and  said, 
“ My  dearest,  I am  summoned,  and  I 
go  ! ” And  she  was  gone.  And  the  trav- 
eller and  he  were  left  alone  together. 

And  they  went  on  and  on  together, 
until  they  came  to  very  near  the  end  of 
the  wood ; so  near,  that  they  could  see 
the  sunset  shining  red  before  them 
through  the  trees. 

Yet  once  more,  while  he  broke  his 
way  among  the  branches,  the  traveller 
lost  his  friend.  He  called  and  called, 
but  there  was  no  reply,  and  when  he 
passed  out  of  the  wood,  and  saw  the 
peaceful  sun  goirf£  down  upon  a wide 
purple  prospect,  he  came  to  an  old  man 
sitting  on  a fallen  tree.  So  he  said  to 


the  old  man,  “ What  do  you  do  here  ? * 
And  the  old  man  said,  with  a calm  smile, 
“ I am  always  remembering.  Come 
and  remember  with  me  !” 

So  the  traveller  sat  down  by  the  side 
of  that  old  man,  face  to  face  with  the 
serene  sunset ; and  all  his  friSnds  came 
softly  back  and  stood  around  him.  The 
beautiful  child,  the  handsome  boy,  the 
young  man  in  love,  the  father,  mother, 
and  children,  — every  one  of  them  was 
there,  and  he  had  lost  nothing.  So  he 
loved  them  all,  and  was  kind  and  for- 
bearing with  them  all,  and  was  always 
leased  to  watch  them  all,  and  they  all 
onored  and  loved  him.  And  I think 
the  traveller  must  be  yourself,  dear 
Grandfather,  because  this  is  what  you 
do  to  us,  and  what  we  do  to  you. 


THE  SCHOOL- 


Being  rather  young  at  present,  — I 
am  getting  on  in  years,  but  still  I am 
rather  young,  — I have  no  particular 
adventures  of  my  own  to  fall  back  up- 
on. It  wouldn’t  much  interest  any- 
body here,  I suppose,  to  know  what  a 
screw  the  Reverend  is,  or  what  a grif- 
fin she  is,  or  how  they  do  stick  it  into 
parents,  — particularly  hair-cutting,  and 
medical  attendance.  One  of  our  fellows 
was  charged  in  his  half’s  account  twelve 
and  sixpence  for  two  pills,  — tolerably 
profitable  at  six  and  threepence  apiece, 
I should  think,  — and  'he  never  took 
them  either,  but  put  them  up  the. 
sleeve  of  his  jacket. 

As  to  the  beef,  it’s  shameful.  It’s 
not  beef.  Regular  beef  isn’t  veins. 
You  can  chew  regular  beef  Besides 
which,  there’s  gravy  to  regular  beef, 
and  you  never  see  a drop  to  ours.  An- 
other of  our  fellows  went  home  ill,  and 
heard  the  family  doctor  tell  his  father 
that  he  could  n’t  account  for  his  com- 
plaint unless  it  was  the  beer.  Of  course 
it  was  the  beer,  and  well  it  might  be  ! 


-BOY’S  STORY. 


However,  beef  and  Old  Cheeseman 
are  two  different  things.  So  is  beer. 
It  was  Old  Cheeseman  I meant  to  tell 
about ; not  the  manner  in  which  our 
fellows  get  their  constitutions  destroyed 
for  the  sake  of  profit. 

Why,  look  at  the  pie-crust  alone. 
There ’s  no  flakiness  in  it.  It ’s  sol- 
id— like  damp  lead.  Then  our  fel- 
lows get  nightmares,  and  are  bolstered 
for  calling  out  and  waking  other  fel- 
lows. Who  can  wonder  ! 

Old  Cheeseman  one  night  walked  in 
his  sleep,  put  his  hat  on  over  his  night- 
cap, got  hold  of  a fishing-rod  and  a crick- 
et-bat, and  went  down  into  the  parlor, 
where  they  naturally  thought  from  his 
appearance  he  was  a ghost.  Why,  he 
never  would  have  done  that,  if  his 
meals  had  been  wholesome.  When  we 
all  begin  to  walk  in  our  sleeps,  I sup- 
pose they  ’ll  be  sorry  for  it. 

Old  Cheeseman  wasn’t  second  Latin 
Master  then  ; he  was  a fellow  himself. 
He  was  first  brought  there,  very  small, 
in  a post-chaise,  by  a woman  who  was 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY'S  STORY. 


37* 


always  taking  snuff  and  shaking  him,  — 
and  that  was  the  most  he  remembered 
about  it.  He  never  went  home  for  the 
holidays.  His  accounts  (he  never  learnt 
any  extras)  were  sent  to  a Bank,  and  the 
Bank  paid  them  ; and  he  had  a brown 
suit  twice  a year,  and  went  into  boots  at 
twelve.  They  were  always  too  big  for 
him,  too. 

In  the  Midsummer  holidays,  some  of 
our  fellows  who  lived  within  walking-dis- 
t^pce  used  to  come  back  and  climb  the 
trees  outside  the  play-ground  wall,  on 
purpose  to  look  at  Old  Cheeseman  read- 
ing there  by  himself.  He  was  always  as 
mild  as  the  tea,  — and  that ’s  pretty  mild, 
I should  hope  ! — so,  when  they  whistled 
to  him,  he  looked  up  and  nodded  ; and 
when  they  said,  “ Halloa,  Old  Cheese- 
man,  what  have  you  had  for  dinner?” 
he  said,  “ Boiled  mutton  ” ; and  when 
they  said,  “Ain’t  it  solitary,  Old  Cheese- 
man  ? ” he  said,  “It  is  a little  dull 
sometimes”;  and  then  they  said,  “Well, 
good  by,  Old  Cheeseman  ! ” and 
climbed  down  again.  Of  course,  it 
was  imposing  on  Old  Cheeseman  to 
give  him  nothing  but  boiled  mutton 
through  a whole  vacation,  but  that 
was  just  like  the  system.  When  they 
did  n’t  give  him  boiled  mutton,  they 
gave  him  rice  pudding,  pretending  it 
was  a treat.  And  saved  the  butcher. 

So  Old  Cheeseman  went  on.  The 
holidays  brought  him  into  other  trou- 
ble besides  the  loneliness ; because 
when  the  fellows  began  to  come  back, 
not  wanting  to,  he  was  always  glad  to 
see  them  ; which  was  aggravating,  when 
they  were  not  at  all  glad  to  see  him, 
and  so  he  got  his  head  knocked  against 
walls,  and  that  was  the  way  his  nose 
bled.  But  he  was  a favorite  in  gen- 
eral. Once  a subscription  was  raised 
for  him  ; and,  to  keep  up  his  spirits, 
he  was  presented  before  the  holidays 
with  two  white  mice,  a rabbit,  a pig- 
eon, and  a beautiful  puppy.  Old 
Cheeseman  cried  about  it,  — especially 
soon  afterwards,  when  they  all  ate  one 
another. 

Of  course  Old  Cheeseman  used  to 
be  called  by  the  names  of  all  sorts  of 
cheeses,  — Double  Glo’sterman,  Family 
Cheshireman,  Dutchman,  North  Wilt- 
shireman,  and  all  that.  But  he  never 


minded  it.  And  I don’t  mean  to  say 
he  was  old  in  point  of  years,  — because 
he  was  n’t,  — only  he  was  called,  from 
the  first,  Old  Cheeseman. 

At  last,  Old  Cheeseman  was  made 
second.  Latin  Master.  He  was  brought 
in  one  morning  at  the  beginning  of  a 
new  half,  and  presented  to  the  school 
in  that  capacity  as  “Mr.  Cheeseman.” 
Then  our  fellows  all  agreed  that  Old 
Cheeseman  was  a spy,  and  a deserter, 
who  had  gone  over  to  the  enemy’s 
camp,  and  sold  himself  for  gold.  It 
was  no  excuse  for  him  that  he  had  sold 
himself  for  very  little  gold,  — two  pound 
ten  a quarter  and  his  washing,  as  was 
reported.  It  was  decided  by  a Parlia- 
ment which  sat  about  it,  that  Old 
Cheeseman’s  mercenary  motives  could 
alone  be  taken  into  account,  and  that 
he  had  “ coined  our  blood  for  drach- 
mas.” The  Parliament  took  the  ex- 
pression out  of  the  quarrel  scene  be- 
tween Brutus  and  Cassius. 

When  it  was  settled  in  this  strong 
way  that  Old  Cheeseman  was  a tremen- 
dous traitor,  who  had  wormed  himself 
into  our  fellows’  secrets  on  purpose  to 
get  himself  into  favor  by  giving  up 
everything  he  knew,  all  courageous  fel- 
lows were  invited  to  come  forward  and 
enroll  themselves  in  a Society  for  mak- 
ing a set  against  him.  The  President 
of  the  Society  was  First  boy,  named 
Bob  Tarter.  His  father  was  in  the 
West  Indies,  and  he  owned,  himself, 
that  his  father  was  worth  Millions.  He 
had  great  power  among  our  fellows,  and 
he  wrote  a parody,  beginning,  — 

“ Who  made  believe  to  be  so  meek 
That  we  could  hardly  hear  him  speak, 
Yet  turned  out  an  Informing  Sneak? 

Old  Cheeseman 

and  on  in  that  way  through  more 
than  a dozen  verses,  which  he  used  to 
go  and  sing,  every  morning,  close  by 
the  new  master’s  desk.  He  trained  one 
of  the  low  boys  too,  a rosy-cheeked 
little  Brass  who  did  n’t  care  what  he 
did,  to  go  up  to  him  with  his  Latin 
Grammar  one  morning,  and  say  it  so : 
— Nominativus  pronominum  — Old 

Cheeseman,  raro  exprimitur was 

never  suspected,  nisi  distinctionis  — of 
being  an  informer,  aut  emphasis  pratici 


372 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY'S  STORY'. 


— until  he  proved  one.  Ut  — for  in- 
stance, Vos  damnastis  — when  he  sold 
the  boys.  Quasi — as  though,  dicat  — 
he  should  say,  Prceterea  nemo  — I’m 
a Judas  ! All  this  produced  a great  ef- 
fect on  Old  Cheeseman.  He  had  never 
had  much  hair  ; but  what  he  had  be- 
gan to  get  thinner  and  thinner  every 
day.  He  grew  paler  and  more  worn  ; 
and  sometimes  of  an  evening  he  was 
seen  sitting  at  his  desk  with  a precious 
long  snuff  to  his  candle,  and  his  hands 
before  his  face,  crying.  But  no  mem- 
ber of  the  Society  could  pity  him,  even 
if  he  felt  inclined,  because  the  Presi- 
dent said  it  was  Old  Cheeseman’s  con- 
science. 

So  Old  Cheeseman  went  on,  and 
did  n’t  he  lead  a miserable  life  ! Of 
course  the  Reverend  turned  up  his  nose 
at  him,  and  of  course  she  did,  — because 
both  of  them  always  do  that  at  all  the 
masters,  — but  he  suffered  from  the  fel- 
lows most,  and  he  suffered  from  them 
constantly.  He  never  told  about  it, 
that  the  Society  could  find  out ; but  he 
got  no  credit  for  that,  because  the  Pres- 
ident said  it  was  Old  Cheeseman’s  cow- 
ardice. 

He  had  only  one  friend  in  the  world, 
and  that  one  was  almost  as  powerless  as 
he  was,  for  it  was  only  Jane.  Jane  was 
a sort  of  wardrobe- worn  an  to  our  fel- 
lows, and  took  care  of  the  boxes.  She 
had  come  at  first,  I believe,  as  a kind 
of  apprentice,  — some  of  our  fellows  say 
from  a Charity,  but  I don’t  know,  — and 
after  her  time  was  out,  had  stopped  at 
so  much  a year.  So  little  a year,  per- 
haps I ought  to  say,  for  it  is  far  more 
likely.  However,  she  had  put  some 
pounds  in  the  Savings’  Bank,  and  she 
was  a very  nice  young  woman.  She 
was  not  quite  pretty  ; but  she  had  a 
very  frank,  honest,  bright  face,  and  all 
our  fellows  were  fond  of  her.  She  was 
uncommonly  neat  and  cheerful,  and  un- 
commonly comfortable  and  kind.  And 
if  anything  was  the  matter  with  a fel- 
low’s mother,  he  always  went  and 
showed  the  letter  to  Jane. 

Jane  was  Old  Cheeseman’s  friend. 
The  more  the  Society  went  against 
him,  the  more  Jane  stood  by  him.  She 
Used  to  give  him  a good-humored  look 
out  of  her  still-room  window,  some- 


times, that  seemed  to  set  him  up  for  the 
day.  She  used  to  pass  out  of  the  or- 
chard and  the  kitchen  garden  (always 
kept  locked,  I believe  you  !)  through 
the  play-ground,  when  she  might  have 
gone  the  other  way,  only  to  give  a 
turn  of  her  head,  as  much  as  to  say, 
“ Keep  up  your  spirits  ! *’  to  Old 
Cheeseman.  His  slip  of  a room  was 
so  fresh  and  orderly,  that  it  was  well 
known  who  looked  after  it  while  he  was 
at  his  desk  ; and  when  our  fellows  s^w 
a smoking  hot  dumpling  on  his  plate  at 
dinner,  they  knew'  with  indignation  who 
had  sent  it  up. 

Under  these  circumstances,  the  Soci- 
ety resolved,  after  a quantity  of  meeting 
and  debating,  that  Jane  should  be  re- 
quested to  cut  Old  Cheeseman  dead ; 
and  that  if  she  refused,  she  must  be 
sent  to  Coventry  herself.  So  a deputa- 
tion, headed  by  the  President,  was  ap- 
pointed to  wait  on  Jane,  and  inform 
her  of  the  vote  the  Society  had  been 
under  the  painful  necessity  of  passing. 
She  was  very  much  respected  for  all 
her  good  qualities,  and  there  w'as  a sto- 
ry about  her  having  once  waylaid  the 
Reverend  in  his  own  study,  and  got  a 
fellow  off  from  severe  punishment,  of 
her  own  kind,  comfortable  heart.  So 
the  deputation  didn’t  much  like  the 
job.  How'ever,  they  went  up,  and  the 
President  told  Jane  all  about  it.  Upon 
which  Jane  turned  very  red,  burst  into 
tears,  informed  the  President  and  the 
deputation,  in  a wray  not  at  all  like  her 
usual  w'ay,  that  they  w-ere  a parcel  of 
malicious  young  savages,  and  turned 
the  whole  respected  body  out  of  the 
room.  Consequently  it  w'as  entered  in 
the  Society’s  book  (kept  in  astronomi- 
cal cipher  for  fear  of  detection),  that  all 
communication  with  Jane  was  inter- 
dicted; and  the  President  addressed  the 
members  on  this  convincing  instance 
of  Old  Cheeseman’s  undermining. 

But  Jane  w'as  as  true  to  Old  Cheese- 
man as  Old  Cheeseman  was  false  to  our 
fellow's,  — in  their  opinion  at  all  events, 
— and  steadily  continued  to  be  his  only 
friend.  It  w'as  a great  exasperation  to 
the  Society,  because  Jane  was  as  much 
a loss  to  them  as  she  was  a gain  to 
him  ; and,  being  more  inveterate  against 
him  than  ever,  they  treated  him  worse 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY'S  STORY. 


373 


than  ever.  At  last,  one  morning,  his 
desk  stood  empty,  his  room  was  peeped 
into  and  found  to  be  vacant,  and  a 
whisper  went  about  among  the  pale 
faces  of  our  fellows,  that  Old  Cheese- 
man,  unable  to  bear  it  any  longer,  had 
got  up  early  and  drowned  himself. 

The  mysterious  looks  of  the  other 
masters  after  breakfast,  and  the  evident 
fact  that  Old  Cheeseman  was  not  ex- 
pected, confirmed  the  Society  in  this 
opinion*  Some  began  to  discuss  wheth- 
er the  President  was  liable  to  hanging 
or  only  transportation  for  life,  and  the 
President’s  face  showed  a great  anxiety 
to  know  which.  However,  he  said  that 
a jury  of  his  country  should  find  him 
game  ; and  that  in  his  • address  he 
should  put  it  to  them  to  lay  their 
hands  upon  their  hearts,  and  say  wheth- 
er they  as  Britons  approved  of  inform- 
ers, and  how  they  thought  they  would 
like  it  themselves.  Some  of  the  Socie- 
ty considered  that  he  had  better  run 
away  until  he  found  a forest,  where  he 
might  change  clothes  with  a wood-cut- 
ter and  stain  his  face  with  blackber- 
ries ; but  the  majority  believed  that  if 
he  stood  his  ground,  his  father  — be- 
longing as  he  did  to  the  West  Indies, 
and  being  worth  Millions  — could  buy 
him  off. 

All  our  fellows’  hearts  beat  fast  when 
the  Reverend  came  in,  and  made  a sort 
of  a Roman,  or  a Field  Marshal,  of 
himself  with  the  ruler,  as  he  always 
did  before  delivering  an  address.  But 
their  fears  were  nothing  to  their  aston- 
ishment when  he  came  out  with  the 
story  that  Old  Cheeseman,  “so  long 
our  respected  friend  and  fellow-pilgrim 
in  the* pleasant  plains  of  knowledge,” 
he  called  him,  — O yes!  I dare  say! 
Much  of  that! — was  the  orphan  child 
of  a disinherited  young  lady  who  had 
married  against  her  father’s  wish,  and 
whose  young  husband  had  died,  and 
who  had  died  of  sorrow  herself,  and 
whose  unfortunate  baby  (Old  Cheese- 
man) had  been  brought  up  at  the  cost 
of  a grandfather  who  would  never  con- 
sent to  see  it,  baby,  boy,  or  man  ; which 
grandfather  was  now  dead,  and  serve 
him  right, — that’s  my  putting  in, — 
and  which  grandfather’s  large  property, 
there  being  no  will,  was  now,  and  all 


of  a sudden  and  forever,  Old  Cheese- 
man’s  ! Our  so  long  respected  friend 
and  fellow-pilgrim  in  the  pleasant  plains 
of  knowledge,  the  Reverend  wound  up 
a lot  of  bothering  quotations  by  saying, 
would  “come  among  us  once  more” 
that  day  fortnight,  when  he  desired  to 
take  leave  of  us  himself  in  a more  par- 
ticular manner.  With  these  words  he 
stared  severely  round  at  our  fellows, 
and  went  solemnly  out. 

There  was  precious  consternation 
among  the  members  of  the  Society, 
now.  Lots  of  them  wanted  to  resign, 
and  lots  more  began  to  try  to  make  out 
that  they  had  never  belonged  to  it. 
However,  the  President  stuck  up,  and 
said  that  they  must  stand  or  fall  togeth- 
er, and  that  if  a breach  was  made,  it 
should  be  over  his  body,  — which  was 
meant  to  encourage  the  Society,  but  it 
didn’t.  The  President  further  said,  he 
would  consider  the  position  in  which 
they  stood,  and  would  give  them  his 
best  opinion  and  advice  in  a few  days. 
This  was  eagerly  looked  for,  as  he  knew 
a good  deal  of  the  world  on  account 
of  his  father’s  being  in  the  West  Indies. 

After  days  and  days  of  hard  thinking, 
and  drawing  armies  all  over  his  slate, 
the  President  called  our  fellows  togeth- 
er, and  made  the  matter  clear.  He 
said  it  was  plain  that  when  Old  Cheese- 
man came  on  the  appointed  day,  his 
first  revenge  would  be  to  impeach  the 
Society,  and  have  it  flogged  all  round. 
After  witnessing  with  joy  the  torture  of 
his  enemies,  and  gloating  over  the  cries 
which  agony  would  extort  from  them, 
the  probability  was  that  he  would  invite 
the  Reverend,  on  pretence  of  conversa- 
tion, into  a private  room,  — say  the 
parlor  into  which  Parents  were  shown, 
where  the  two  great  globes  were  which 
were  never  used, — and  would  there 
reproach  him  with  the  various  frauds 
and  oppressions  he  had  endured  at  his 
hands.  At  the  close  of  his  observations 
he  would  make  a signal  to  a.Prize-fight- 
er  concealed  in  the  passage,  who  would 
then  appear  and  pitch  into  the  Rev- 
erend till  he  was  left  insensible.  Old 
Cheeseman  would  then  make  Jane  a 
present  of  from  five  to  ten  pounds,  and 
would  leave  the  establishment  in  fiend- 
ish triumph. 


374 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY'S  STORY. 


The  President  explained  that  against 
the  parlor  part,  or  the  Jane  part,  of 
these  arrangements  he  had  nothing  to 
say;  but,  on  the  part  of  the  Society, 
he  counselled  deadly  resistance.  With 
this  view  he  recommended  that  all 
available  desks  should  be  filled  with 
stones,  and  that  the  first  word  of  the 
complaint  should  be  the  signal  to  every 
fellow  to  let  fly  at  Old  Cheeseman. 
The  bold  advice  put  the  Society  in 
better  spirits,  and  was  unanimously 
taken.  A post  about  Old  Cheeseman’s 
size  was  put  up  in  the  play-ground,  and 
all  our  fellows  practised  at  it  till  it  was 
dinted  all  over. 

When  the  day  came,  and  Places  were 
called,  every  fellow  sat  down  in  a trem- 
ble. There  had  been  much  discussing 
and  disputing  as  to  how  Old  Cheese- 
man  would  come ; but  it  was  the  general 
opinion  that  he  would  appear  in  a sort 
of  triumphal  car  drawn  by  four  horses, 
with  two  livery  servants  in  front,  and 
the  Prize-fighter  in  disguise  up  behind. 
So  all  our  fellows  sat  listening  for  the 
sound  of  wheels.  But  no  wheels  were 
heard,  for  Old  Cheeseman  walked  after 
all,  and  came  into  the  school  without 
any  preparation.  Pretty  much  as  he 
used  to  be,  only  dressed  in  black. 

“Gentlemen,”  said  the  Reverend, 
presenting  him,  “ our  so  long  respected 
friend  and  fellow-pilgrim  in  the  pleasant 
plains  of  knowledge  is  desirous  to  offer 
a word  or  two.  Attention,  gentlemen, 
one  and  all  ! ” 

Every  fellow  stole  his  hand  into  his 
desk  and  looked  at  the  President.  The 
President  was  all  ready,  and  taking  aim 
at  Old  Cheeseman  with  his  eyes. 

What  did  Old  Cheeseman  then,  but 
walk  up  to  his  old  desk,  look  round 
him  with  a queer  smile  as  if  there  was 
a tear  in  his  eye,  and  begin  in  a quaver- 
ing, mild  voice,  “ My  dear  companions 
and  old  friends  ! ” 

Every  fellow’s  hand  came  out  of  his 
desk,  and  the  President  suddenly  began 
to  cry. 

“ My  dear  companions  and  old 
friends,”  said  Old  Cheeseman,  “you 
have  heard  of  my  good  fortune.  I have 
passed  so  many  years  under  this  roof — 
ray  entire  life  so  far,  I may  say  — that 
I hope  you  have  been  glad  to  hear  of 


it  for  my  sake.  I could  never  enjoy 
it  without  exchanging  congratulations 
with  you.  If  we  have  ever  misunder- 
stood one  another  at  all,  pray,  my  dear 
boys,  let  us  forgive  and  forget.  I have 
a great  tenderness  for  you,  and  I am 
sure  you  return  it.  I want  in  the  fulness 
of  a grateful  heart  to  shake  hands  with 
you  every  one.  I have  come  back  to 
do  it,  if  you  please,  my  dear  boys.” 

Since  the  President  had  begun  to  cry, 
several  other  fellows  had  broken  out 
here  and  there ; but  now,  when  Old 
Cheeseman  began  with  him  as  first  boy, 
laid  his  left  hand  affectionately  on  his 
shoulder  and  g^vc  him  his  right;  and 
when  the  President  said,  “ Indeed  I 
don’t  deserve  it,  sir;  upon  my  honor, 
I don’t,”  there  was  sobbing  and  cry- 
ing all  over  the  school.  Every  other 
fellow  said  he  didn’t  deserve  it,  much 
in  the  same  way ; but  old  Cheeseman, 
not  minding  that  a bit,  went  cheerfully 
round  to  every  boy,  and  wound  up  with 
every  master,  — finishing  off  the  Rever- 
end last. 

Then  a snivelling  little  chap  in  a 
corner,  who  was  always  under  some 
punishment  or  other,  set  up  a shrill 
cry  of  “ Success  to  Old  Cheeseman  ! 
Hoorray !”  The  Reverend  glared  upon 
him,  and  said,  “ Mr.  Cheeseman,  sir.” 
But  Old  Cheeseman  protesting  that 
he  liked  his  old  name  a great  deal 
better  than  his  new  one,  all  our  fellows 
took  up  the  cry  ; and,  for  I don’t  know 
how  many  minutes,  there  was  such  a 
thundering  of  feet  and  hands,  and  such 
a roaring  of  Old  Cheeseman,  as  never 
was  heard. 

After  that,  there  was  a spread  in  the 
dining-room  of  the  most  magnificent 
kind.  Fowls,  tongues,  preserves,  fruits, 
confectioneries,  jellies,  neguses,  barley- 
sugar  temples,  trifles,  crackers,  — eat 
all  you  can  and  pocket  what  you  like,  — 
all  at  Old  Cheeseman’s  expense.  After 
that,  speeches,  whole  holiday,  double 
and  treble  sets  of  all  manners  of  things 
for  all  manners  of'  games,  donkeys, 
pony-chaises  and  drive  yourself,  dinner 
for  all  the  masters  at  the  Seven  Bells 
(twenty  pounds  a head  our  fellows 
estimated  it  at),  an  annual  holiday  and 
feast  fixed  for  that  day  every  year,  and 
another  on  Old  Cheeseman’s  birthday. 


OLD  CHEESEMAN. 


the  uwmw 

OF  THE 

08WERSITV  8f  ItU^O’.S 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY'S  STORY. 


375 


— Reverend  bound  down  before  the 
fellows  to  allow  it,  so  that  he  could 
never  back  out,  — all  at  Old  Cheese- 
man’s  expense. 

And  didn’t  our  fellows  go  down  in  a 
body  and  cheer  outside  the  Seven  Bells  ? 
O no  ! 

But  there ’s  something  else  besides. 
Don’t  look  at  the  next  story-teller,  for 
there ’s  more  yet.  Next  day,  it  was  re- 
solved that  the  Society  should  make  it 
up  with  Jane,  and  then  be  dissolved. 
What  do  you  think  of  Jane  being  gone, 
though!  “What?  Gone  forever?” 
said  our  fellows,  with  long  faces.  “Yes, 
to  be  sure,”  was  all  the  answer  they 
could  get.  None  of  the  people  about 
the  house  would  say  anything  more. 
At  length,  the  first  boy  took  upon  him- 
self to  ask  the  Reverend  whether  our 
old  friend  Jane  was  really  gone  ? The 
Reverend  (he  has  got  a daughter  at 
home  — turn-up*  nose,  and  red)  replied 
severely,  “Yes,  sir,  Miss  Pitt  is  gone.” 
The  idea  of  calling  Jane  Miss  Pitt  ! 
Some  said  she  had  been  sent  away  in 
disgrace  for  taking  money  from  Old 
Cheeseman,  others  said  she  had  gone 
into  Old  Cheeseman’s  service  at  a rise 
of  ten  pounds  a year.  All  that  our  fel- 
lows knew  was,  she  was  gone. 

It  was  two  or  three  months  afterwards, 
when,  one  afternoon,  an  open  carriage 
stopped  at  the  cricket-field,  just  outside 
bounds,  with  a lady  and  gentleman 
in  it,  who  looked  at  the  game  a long 
time  and  stood  up  to  see  it  played. 
Nobody  thought  much  about  them,  un- 
til the  same  little  snivelling  chap  came 
in  against  all  rules,  from  the  post  where 
he  was  Scout,  and  said,  “ It’s  Jane  !” 
Both  Elevens  forgot  the  game  directly, 
and  ran  crowding  round  the  carriage. 
It  was  Jane  ! In  such  a bonnet  ! And 
if  you  ’ll  believe  me,  Jane  was  married 
to  Old  Cheeseman. 

It  soon  became  quite  a regular  thing 
when  our  fellows  were  hard  at  it  in  the 
play-ground,  to  see  a carriage  at  the  low 
part  of  the  wall  where  it  joins  the  high 
part,  and  a lady  and  gentleman  stand- 
ing up  in  it,  looking  over.  The  gentle- 
man was  always  Old  Ckeeseman,  and 
the  lady  was  always  Jane. 

The  first  time  I ever  saw  them,  I saw 
them  in  that  way.  There  had  been  a 


good  many  changes  among  our  fellows 
then,  and  it  had  turned  out  that  Bob 
Tarter’s  father  wasn’t  worth  Millions! 
He  was  n’t  worth  anything.  Bob  had 
gone  for  a soldier,  and  Old  Cheeseman 
had  purchased  his  discharge.  But  that ’s 
not  the  carriage.  The  carriage  stopped, 
and  all  our  fellows  stopped  as  soon  as  it 
was  seen. 

“ So  you  have  never  sent  me  to  Cov- 
entry after  all ! ” said  the  lady,  laugh- 
ing, as  our  fellows  swarmed  up  the  wall 
to  shake  hands  with  her.  “ Are  you 
never  going  to  do  it?” 

“ Never  ! never  ! never  ! ” on  all  sides. 

I didn’t  understand  what  she  meant 
then,  but  of  course  I do  now.  I was 
very  much  pleased  with  her  face,  though, 
and  with  her  good  way,  and  I could  n’t 
help  looking  at  her  — and  at  him  too  — 
with  all  our  fellows  clustering  so  joyful- 
ly about  them. 

They  soon  took  notice  of  me  as  anew 
boy,  so  I thought  I might  as  well  swarm 
up  the  wall  myself,  and  shake  hands 
with  them  as  the  rest  did.  I was  quite 
as  glad  to  see  them  as  the  rest  were, 
and  was  quite  as  familiar  with  them 
in  a moment. 

“Only  a fortnight,  now,”  said  Old 
Cheeseman,  “ to  the  holidays.  Who 
stops?  Anybody?” 

A good  many  fingers  pointed  at  me, 
and  a good  many  voices  cried,  “ He 
does  ! ” For  it  was  the  year  when  you 
were  all  away  ; and  rather  low  I was 
about  it,  I can  tell  you. 

“ Oh  ! ” said  Old  Cheeseman.  “ But 
it ’s  solitary  here  in  the  holiday  time. 
He  had  better  come  to  us.” 

So  I went  to  their  delightful  house, 
and  was  as  happy  as  I could  possibly 
be.  They  understand  how  to  conduct 
themselves  towards  boys,  they  do. 
When  they  take  a boy  to  the  play,  for 
instance,  they  do  take  him.  They  don’t 
go  in  after  it ’s  begun,  or  come  out 
before  it ’s  over.  They  know  how  to 
bring  a boy  up,  too.  Look  at  their  own  ! 
Though  he  is  very  little  as  yet,  what  a 
capital  boy  he  is ! Why,  my  next  fa- 
vorite to  Mrs.  Cheeseman  and  Old 
Cheeseman,  is  young  Cheeseman. 

So  now  I have  told  you  all  I know 
about  Old  Cheeseman.  And  it’s  not 
much  after  all,  I am  afraid.  Is  it  ? 


376 


NOBODY'S  STORY. 


NOBODY’ 


He  lived  on  the  bank  of  a mighty 
river,  broad  and  deep,  which  was  al- 
ways silently  rolling  on  to  a vast  undis- 
covered ocean.  It  had  rolled  on,  ever 
since  the  world  began.  It  had  changed 
its  course  sometimes,  and  turned  into 
new  channels,  leaving  its  old  ways  dry 
and  barren  ; but  it  had  ever  been  upon 
the  flow,  and  ever  was  to  flow  until 
Time  should  be  no  more.  Against  its 
strong,  unfathomable  . stream,  nothing 
made  head.  No  living  creature,  no 
flower,  no  leaf,  no  particle  of  animate  or 
inanimate  existence,  ever  strayed  back 
from  the  undiscovered  ocean.  The  tide 
of  the  river  set  resistlessly  towards  it  ; 
and  the  tide  never  stopped,  any  more 
than  the  earth  stops  in  its  circling 
round  the  sun. 

He  lived  in  a busy  place,  and  he 
worked  very  hard  to  live.  He  had  no 
hope  of  ever  being  rich  enough  to  live  a 
month  without  hard  work,  but  he  was 
quite  content,  God  knows,  to  labor  with 
a cheerful  will.  He  was  one  of  an  im- 
mense family,  all  of  whose  sons  and 
daughters  gained  their  daily  bread  by 
daily  work,  prolonged,  from  their  rising 
up  betimes  until  their  lying  down  at 
night.  Beyond  this  destiny  he  had  no 
prospect,  and  he  sought  none. 

There  was  over-much  drumming, 
trumpeting,  and  speech-making,  in  the 
neighborhood  where  he  dwelt  ; but  he 
had  nothing  to  do'  with  that.  Such 
clash  and  uproar  came  from  the  Bigwig 
family,  at  the  unaccountable  proceed- 
ings of  which  race  he  marvelled  much. 
They  set  up  the  strangest  statues,  in 
iron,  marble,  bronze,  and  brass,  before 
his  door  ; and  darkened  his  house  with 
the  legs  and  tails  of  uncouth  images  of 
horses.  He  wondered  what  it  all  meant, 
smiled  in  a rough,  good-humored  way  he 
had,  and  kept  at  his  hard  work. 

The  Bigwig  family  (composed  of  all 
the  stateliest  people  thereabouts,  and 
all  the  poisiest)  had  undertaken  to  save 


S STORY. 


him  the  trouble  of  thinking  for  himself, 
and  to  manage  him  and  his  affairs. 
‘‘Why,  truly,”  said  he,  “I  have  little 
time  upon  m^  hands  ; and  if  you  will  be 
so  good  as  to  take  care  of  me,  in  return 
for  the  money  I pay  over,” — for  the 
Bigwig  family  were  not  above  his  mon- 
ey, — “ I shall  be  relieved  and  much 
obliged,  considering  that  you  know 
best.”  Hence  the  drumming,  trumpet- 
ing, and  speech-making,  and  the  ugly 
images  of  horses  which  he  was  expected 
to  fall  down  and  worship. 

“ I don’t  understand  all  this,”  said 
he,  rubbing  his  furrowed  brow  confused- 
ly. “ But  it  has  a meaning,  may  be,  if 
I could  find  it  out.” 

“ It  means,”  returned  the  Bigwig 
family,  suspecting  something  of  what  he 
said,  “ honor  and  glory  in  the  highest, 
to  the  highest  merit.” 

“ Oh  ! ” said  he.  And  he  was  glad 
to  hear  that. 

But  when  he  looked  among  the 
images  in  iron,  marble,  bronze,  and 
brass,  he  failed  to  find  a rather  merito- 
rious countryman  of  his,  once  the  son 
of  a Warwickshire  wool-dealer,  or  any 
single  countryman  whomsoever  of  that 
kind.  He  could  find  none  of  the  men 
whose  knowledge  had  rescued  him  and 
his  children  from  terrific  and  disfigur- 
ing disease,  whose  boldness  had  raised 
his  forefathers  from  the  condition  of 
serfs,  whose  wise  fancy  had  opened  a 
new  and  high  existence  to  the  hum- 
blest, whose  skill  had  filled  the  working- 
man’s world  with  accumulated  wonders. 
Whereas,  he  did  find  others  whom  he 
knew  no  good  of,  and  even  others  whom 
he  knew  much  ill  of. 

“ Humph  ! ” said  he.  “ I don’t  quite 
understand  it.” 

So  he  went  home,  and  sat  down  by 
his  fireside  to  get  it  out  of  his  mind. 

Now,  his  fireside  was  a bare  one,  all 
hemmed  in  by  blackened  streets ; but 
it  was  a precious  place  to  him.  The 


NOBODY'S  STORY. 


377 


hands  of  his  wife  were  hardened  with 
toil,  and  she  was  old  before  her  time  ; 
but  she  was  dear  to  him.  His  children, 
stunted  in  their  growth,  bore  traces  of 
unwholesome  nurture  ; but  they  had 
beauty  in  his  sight.  Above  all  other 
things,  it  was  an  earnest  desire  of  this 
man’s  soul  that  his  children  should  be 
taught.  “If  I am  sometimes  misled,” 
said  he,  “ for  want  of  knowledge,  at 
least  let  them  know  better,  and  avoid 
my  mistakes.  If  it  is  hard  to  me  to 
reap  the  harvest  of  pleasure  and  in- 
struction that  is  stored  in  books,  let  it 
be  easier  to  them.” 

But  the  Bigwig  family  broke  out  in- 
to violent  family  quarrels  concerning 
what  it  was  lawful  to  teach  to  this  man’s 
children.  Some  of  the  family*insisted 
on  such  a thing  being  primary  and  in- 
dispensable above  all  other  things ; and 
others  of  the  family  insisted  on  such 
another  thing  being  primary  and  indis- 
pensable above  all  other  things  ; and 
the  Bigwig  family,  rent  into  factions, 
wrote  pamphlets,  held  convocations, 
delivered  charges,  orations,  and  all  va- 
rieties of  discourses ; impounded  one 
another  in  courts  Lay  and  courts  Eccle- 
siastical ; threw  dirt,  exchanged  pum- 
mellings,  and  fell  together  by  the  ears 
in  unintelligible  animosity.  Mean- 
while, this  man,  in  his  short  evening 
snatches  at  his  fireside,  saw  the  demon 
Ignorance  arise  there,  and  take  his  chil- 
dren to  itself.  He  saw  his  daughter 
perverted  into  a heavy  slatternly  drudge  ; 
he  saw  his  son  go  moping  down  the  ways 
of  low  sensuality  to  brutality  and  crime  ; 
he  saw  the  dawning  light  of  intelligence 
in  the  eyes  of  his  babies  so  changing 
into  cunning  and  suspicion  that  he 
could  have  rather  wished  them  idiots. 

“ I don’t  understand  this  any  the  bet- 
ter,” said  he;  “but  I think  it  cannot 
be  right.  Nay,  by  the  clouded  Heaven 
above  me,  I protest  against  this  as  my 
wrong  !” . 

Becoming  peaceable  again  (for  his 
passion  was  usually  short-lived,  and 
his  nature  kind),  he  looked  about  him 
on  his  Sundays  and  holidays,  and  he 
saw  how  much  monotony  and  weariness 
there  was,  and  thence  how  drunkenness 
arose  with  all  its  train  of  ruin.  Then 
he  appealed  to  the  Bigwig  family,  and 


said,  “We  are  a laboring  people,  and  I 
have  a glimmering  suspicion  in  me  that 
laboring  people  of  whatever  condition 
were  made  — by  a higher  intelligence 
than  yours,  as  I poorly  understand  it  — 
to  be  in  need  of  mental  refreshment  and 
recreation.  See  what  we  fall  into,  when 
we  rest  without  it.  Come  ! Amuse  me 
harmlessly,  show  me  something,  give 
me  an  escape  ! ” 

But  here  the  Bigwig  family  fell  into 
a state  of  uproar  absolutely  deafening. 
When  some  few  voices  were  faintly 
heard,  proposing  to  show  him  the  won- 
ders of  the  world,  the  greatness  of  crea- 
tion, the  mighty  changes  of  time,  the 
workings  of  nature,  and  the  beauties  of 
art,  — to  show  him  these  things,  that  is 
to  say,  at  any  period  of  his  life  when  he 
could  look  upon  them,  — there  arose 
among  the  Bigwigs  such  roaring  and 
raving,  such  pulpiting  and  petitioning, 
such  maundering  and  memorializing, 
such  name-calling  and  dirt-throwing, 
such  a shrill  wind  of  parliamentary 
questioning  and  feeble  replying,  — where 
“ I dare  not  ” waited  on-^  I would,”  — 
that  the  poor  fellow  stood  aghast,  star- 
ing wildly  around. 

“ Have  I provoked  all  this,”  said  he, 
with  his  hands  to  his  affrighted  ears, 
“ by  what  was  meant  to  be  an  innocent 
request,  plainly  arising  out  of  my  famil- 
iar experience,  and  the  common  knowl- 
edge of  all  men  who  choose  to  open 
their  eyes?  I don’t  understand,  and  I 
am  not  understood.  What  is  to  come 
of  such  a state  of  things  ! ” 

He  was  bending  over  his  work,  often 
asking  himself  the  question,  when  the 
news  began  to  spread  that  a pestilence 
had  appeared  among  the  laborers,  and 
was  slaying  them  by  thousands.  Going 
forth  to  look  about  him,  he  soon  found 
this  to  be  true.  The  dying  and  the 
dead  were  mingled  in  the  close  and 
tainted  houses  among  which  his  life  was 
passed.  New  poison  was  distilled  in- 
to the  always  murky,  always  sickening 
air.  The  robust  and  the  weak,  old  age 
and  infancy,  the  father  and  the  mother, 
all  were  stricken  down  alike. 

What  means  of  flight  had  he  ? He 
remained  there,  where  he  was,  and  saw 
those  who  were  dearest  to  him  die.  A 
kind  preacher  came  to  him,  ancf  w«uld 


378 


NOBODY’S  STORY. 


have  said  some  prayers  to  soften  his 
heart  in  his  gloom,  but  he  replied  : — 

“ O what  avails  it,  missionary,  to 
come  to  me,  a man  condemned  to  resi- 
dence in  this  foetid  place,  where  every 
sense  bestowed  upon  me  for  my  delight 
becomes  a torment,  and  where  every 
minute  of  my  numbered  days  is  new 
mire  added  to  the  heap  under  which  I 
lie  oppressed  ! But  give  me  my  first 
glimpse  of  Heaven,  through  a little  of 
its  light  and  air  ; give  me  pure  water ; 
help  me  to  be  clean ; lighten  this  heavy 
atmosphere  and  heavy  life,  in  which 
our  spirits  sink,  and  we  become  the  in- 
different and  callous  creatures  you  too 
often  see  us  ; gently  and  kindly  take 
the  bodies  of  those  who  die  among  us 
out  of  the  small  room  where  we  grow  to 
be  so  familiar  with  the  awful  change  that 
even  its  sanctity  is  lost  to  us  ; and, 
Teacher,  then  I will  hear  — none  know 
better  than  you,  how  willingly  — of 
Him  whose  thoughts  were  so  much 
with  the  poor,  and  who  had  compassion 
for  all  human  sorrow  ! ” 

He  was  at -his  work  again,  solitary 
and  sad,  when  his  Master  came  and 
stood  near  to  him  dressed  in  black. 
He,  also,  had  suffered  heavily.  His 
young  wife,  his  beautiful  and  good  young 
wife,  was  dead  ; so,  too,  his  only  child. 

“ Master,  ’t  is  hard  to  bear,  — I know 
it,  — but  be  comforted.  I would  give 
you  comfort,  if  I could.’ ’ 

The  Master  thanked  him  from  his 
heart,  but,  said  he,  “ O you  laboring 
men  ! The  calamity  began  among  you. 
If  you  had  but  lived  more  healthily  and 
decently,  I should  not  be  the  widowed 
and  bereft  mourner  that  I am  this 
day.” 

“Master,”  returned  the  other,  shak- 
ing his  head,  “ I have  begun  to  under- 
stand a little  that  most  calamities  will 
come  from  us,  as  this  one  did,  and  that 
none  will  stop  at  our  poor  doors,  until 
we  are  united  with  that  great  squabbling 
family  yonder,  to  do  the  things  that  are 
right.  We  cannot  live  healthily  and 
decently,  unless  they  who  undertook 
to  manage  us  provide  the  means.  We 
cannot  be  instructed  unless  they  will 
teach  us ; we  cannot  be  rationally 
amused,  unless  they  will  amuse  us ; 
we  cannot  but  have  some  false  gods  of 


our  own,  while  they  set  up  so  many  of 
theirs  in  all  the  public  places.  The 
evil  consequences  of  imperfect  instruc- 
tion, the  evil  consequences  of  pernicious 
neglect,  the  evil  consequences  of  un- 
natural restraint  and  the  denial  of  hu- 
manizing enjoyments,  will  all  come 
from  us,  and  none  of  them  will  stop 
with  us.  They  will  spread  far  and 
wide.  They  always  do ; they  always 
have  done, — just  like  the  pestilence. 
I understand  so  much,  I think,  at  last.” 

But  the  Master  said  again,  “O  you 
laboring  men ! How  seldom  do  we 
ever  hear  of  you,  except  in  connection 
with  some  trouble  ! ” 

“ Master,”  he  replied,  “ I am  No- 
body, and  little  likely  to  be  heard  of 
(nor  yef  much  wanted  to  be  heard  of, 
perhaps),  except  when  there  is  some 
trouble.  But  it  never  begins  with  me, 
and  it  never  can  end  with  me.  As  sure 
as  death,  it  comes  down  to  me,  and 
it  goes  up  from  me.” 

There  was  so  much  reason  in  what 
he  said,  that  the  Bigwig  family,  getting 
wind  of  it,  and  being  horribly  frightened 
by  the  late  desolation,  resolved  to 
unite  with  him  to  do  the  things  that 
were  right,  — at  all  events,  so  far  as  the 
said  things  were  associated  with  the 
direct  prevention,  humanly  speaking, 
of  another  pestilence.  But  as  their 
fear  wore  off,  which  it  soon  began  to 
do,  they  resumed  their  falling  out 
among  themselves,  and  did  nothing. 
Consequently  the  scourge  appeared 
again  — low  down  as  before  — and 
spread  avengingly  upward  as  before, 
and  carried  off  vast  numbers  of  the 
brawlers.  But  not  a man  among  them 
ever  admitted,  if  in  the  least  degree 
he  ever  perceived,  that  he  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  it. 

So  Nobody  lived  and  died  in  the  old, 
old.  old  way  ; and  this,  in  the  main, 
is  the  whole  of  Nobody’s  story. 

Had  he  no  name,  you  ask  ? Perhaps 
it  was  Legion.  It  matters  little  what 
his  name  was.  Let  us  call  him  Le- 
gion. 

If  you  were  ever  in  the  Belgian  vil- 
lages near  the  field  of  Waterloo,  you 
will  have  seen,  in  some  quiet  little 
church,  a monument  erected  by  faithful 
companions  in  arms  to  the  memory  of 


THE  GHOST  OF  ART. 


379 


Colonel  A,  Major  B,  Captains  C,  D, 
and  E,  Lieutenants  F and  G,  Ensigns 
H,  I,  and  J,  seven  non-commissioned 
officers,  and  one  hundred  and  thirty 
rank  and  file,  who  fell  in  the  discharge 
of  their  duty  on  the  memorable  day. 
The  story  of  Nobody  is  the  story  of 
the  rank  and  file  of  the  earth.  They 


bear  their  share  _ of  the  battle ; they 
have  their  part  in  the  victory ; they 
fall  ; they  leave  no  name  but  in  the 
mass.  The  march  of  the  proudest  of 
us  leads  to  the  dusty  way  by  which 
they  go.  O,  let  us  think  of  them  this 
year  at  the  Christmas  fire,  and  not  for- 
get them  when  it  is  burnt  out  I 


THE  GHOST  OF  ART. 


I am  a bachelor,  residing  in  rather  a 
dreary  set  of  chambers  in  the  Temple. 
They  are  situated  in  a square  court  of 
high  houses,  which  would  be  a complete 
well,  but  for  the  want  of  water  and  the 
absence  of  a bucket.  I live  at  the  top 
of  the  house,  among  the  tiles  and  spar- 
rows. Like  the  little  man  in  the  nurs- 
ery-story, I live  by  myself,  and  all  the 
bread  and  cheese  I get  — which  is  not 
much  — I put  upon  a shelf.  I need 
scarcely  add,  perhaps,  that  I am  in  love, 
and  that  the  father  of  my  charming 
Julia  objects  to  our  union. 

I mention  these  little  particulars  as  I 
might  deliver  a letter  of  introduction. 
The  reader  is  now  acquainted  with  me,- 
and  perhaps  will  condescend  to  listen  to 
my  narrative. 

I am  naturally  of  a dreamy  turn  of 
mind  ; and  my  abundant  leisure,  — for 
I am  called  to  the  bar, — coupled  with 
much  lonely  listening  to  the  twittering 
of  sparrows,  and  the  pattering  of  rain, 
has  encouraged  that  disposition.  In 
my  “top  set,”  I hear  the  wind  howl, 
on  a winter  night,  when  the  man  on  the 
ground-floor  believes  it  is  perfectly  still 
weather.  The  dim  lamps  with  which 
our  Honorable  Society  (supposed  to  be 
as  yet  unconscious  of  the  new  discovery 
called  gas)  make  the  horrors  of  the 
staircase  visible,  deepen  the  gloom 
which  generally  settles  on  my  soul  when 
I go  home  at  night. 

I am  in  the  Law,  but  not  of  it.  I 
can’t  exactly  make  out  what  it  means. 


I sit  in  Westminster  Hall  sometimes 
(in  character)  from  ten  to  four  ; and 
when  I go  out  of  court,  I don’t  know 
whether  I am  standing  on  my  wig  or 
my  boots. 

It  appears  to  me  (I  mention  this  in 
confidence)  as  if  there  were  too  much 
talk  and  too  much  law,  — as  if  some 
grains  of  truth  were  started  overboard 
into  a tempestuous  sea  of  chaff. 

All  this  may  make  me  mystical. 
Still,  I am  confident  that  what  I am 
going  to  describe  myself  as  having- 
seen  and  heard,  I actually  did  see  and 
hear. 

It  is  necessary  that  I should  observe 
that  I have  a great  delight  in  pictures. 
I am  no  painter  myself,  but  I have 
studied  pictures  and  written  about  them, 
I have  seen  all  the  most  famous  pictures 
in  the  world  ; my  education  and  reading 
have  been  sufficiently  general  to  possess 
me  beforehand  with  a knowledge  of 
most  of  the  subjects  to  which  a painter 
is  likely  to  have  recourse ; and,  al- 
though I might  be  in  some  doubt  as  to 
the  rightful  fashion  of  the  scabbard  of 
King  Lear’s  sword,  for  instance,  I think 
I should  know  King  Lear  tolerably 
well,  if  I happened  to  meet  with  him. 

I go  to  all  the  Modern  Exhibitions 
every  season,  and  of  course  I revere  the 
Royal  Academy.  I stand  by  its  forty 
Academical  articles  almost  as  firmly  as 
I stand  by  the  thirty-nine  Articles  of 
the  Church  of  England.  I am  con- 
vinced that  in  neither  case  could  there 


380 


THE  GHOST  OF  ART . 


be,  by  any  rightful  possibility,  one  arti- 
cle more  or  less. 

It  is  now  exactly  three  years  — three 
years  ago,  this  very  month  — since  I 
went  from  Westminster  to  the  Temple, 
one  Thursday  afternoon,  in  a cheap 
steamboat.  The  sky  was  black,  when 
I imprudently  walked  on  board.  It 
began  to  thunder  and  lighten  immedi- 
ately afterwards,  and  the  rain  poured 
dowu  in  torrents.  The  deck  seeming 
to  smoke  with  the  wet,  I went  below  ; 
but  so  many  passengers  were  there, 
smoking  too,  that  I came  up  again,  and 
buttoning  my  pea-coat,  and  standing  in 
the  shadow  of  the  paddle-box,  stood  as 
upright  as  I could,  and  made  the  best 
of  it. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  I first  be- 
held the  terrible  Being  who  is  the  sub- 
ject of  my  present  recollections. 

Standing  against  the  funnel,  appar- 
ently with  the  intention  of  drying  him- 
self by  the  heat  as  fast  as  he  got  wet, 
was  a shabby  man  in  threadbare  black, 
and  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  who 
fascinated  me  from  the  memorable  in- 
stant when  I caught  his  eye. 

Where  had  I caught  that  eye  before? 
Who  was  he?  Why  did  I connect  him, 
all  at  once,  with  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
Alfred  the  Great,  Gil  Bias,  Charles  the 
Second,  Joseph  and  his  Brethren,  the 
Fairy  Queen,  Tom  Jones,  the  Decam- 
eron of  Boccaccio,  Tam  O’Shanter, 
the  Marriage  of  the  Doge  of  Venice 
with  the  Adriatic,  and  the  Great  Plague 
of  London?  Why,  when  he  bent  one 
leg,  and  placed  one  hand  upon  the  back 
of  the  seat  near  him,  did  my  mind 
associate  him  wildly  with  the  words, 
“ Number  one  hundred  and  forty-two, 
Portrait  of  a gentleman  ” ? Could  it  be 
that  I was  going  mad  ? 

I looked  at  him  again,  and  now  I 
could  have  taken  my  affidavit  that  he 
belonged  to  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield’s 
family.  Whether  he  was  the  Vicar,  or 
Moses,  or  Mr.  Burchill,  or  the  Squire, 
or  a conglomeration  of  all  four,  I know 
not  ; but  I was  impelled  to  seize  him 
by  the  throat,  and  charge  him  with 
being,  in  some  fell  way,  connected  with 
the  Primrose  blood.  He  looked  up  at 
the  rain,  and  then  — O Heaven  ! — 
he  became  Saint  John.  He  folded  his 


arms,  resigning  himself  to  the  weather, 
and  I was  frantically  inclined  to  address 
him  as  the  Spectator,  and  firmly  de- 
manded to  know  what  he  had  done 
with  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley. 

The  frightful  suspicion  that  I was 
becoming  deranged  returned  upon  me 
wdth  redoubled  force.  Meantime,  this 
awful  stranger,  inexplicably  linked  to 
my  distress,  stood  drying  himself  at  the 
funnel  ; and  ever,  as  the  steam  rose 
from  his  clothes,  diffusing  a mist  around 
him,  I saw  through  the  ghostly  medium 
all  the  people  I have  mentioned,  and  a 
score  more,  sacred  and  profane. 

I am  conscious  of  a dreadful  inclina- 
tion that  stole  upon  me,  as  it  thundered 
and  lightened,  to  grapple  with  this  man 
or  demon,  and  plunge  him  over  the 
side.  But  I constrained  myself — I 
know  not  how' — to  speak  to  him,  and 
in  a pause  of  the  storm  I crossed  the 
deck,  and  said,  — 

“ What  are  you  ? ” 

He  replied,  hoarsely,  “A  Model.” 

“ A what?  ” said  I. 

“ A Model,”  he  replied.  “ I sets  to 
the  profession  for  a bob  a hour.”  (All 
through  this  narrative  I give  his  own 
words, . which  are  indelibly  imprinted 
on  my  memory.) 

The  relief  w'hich  this  disclosure  gave 
me,  the  exquisite  delight  of  the  restora- 
tion of  my  confidence  in  my  own  sanity, 
I cannot  describe.  I should  have  fallen 
on  his  neck,  but  for  the  consciousness 
of  being  observed  by  the  man  at  the 
wheel. 

“You  then,”  said  I,  shaking  him  so 
warmly  by  the  hand,  that  I wrung  the 
rain  out  of  his  coat-cuff,  “ are  the  gen- 
tleman whom  I have  so  frequently  con- 
templated, in  connection  with  a high- 
backed  chair  w'ith  a red  cushion,  and  a 
table  with  twisted  legs.” 

“ I am  that  Model,”  he  rejoined, 
moodily,  “and  I wish  I was  anything 
else.” 

“ Say  not  so,”  I returned.  “I  have 
seen  you  in  the  society  of  many  beau- 
tiful young  women  ” ; as  in  truth  I had, 
and  always  (I  now  remember)  in  the 
act  of  making  the  most  of  his  legs. 

“ No  doubt,”  said  he.  “ And  you ’ve 
! seen  me  along  with  warses  of  flowers, 

: and  any  number  of  table-kivers,  and 


THE  GHOST  OF  ART. 


antique  cabinets,  and  warious  gam- 
mon.” 

“ Sir  ? ” said  I. 

“And  warious  gammon,”  he  repeated 
in  a louder  voice.  “ You  might  have 
seen  me  in  armor,  too,  if  you  had  looked 
sharp.  Blessed  if  I ha’n’t  stood  in  half 
the  suits  of  armor  as  ever  came  out  of 
Pratt’s  shop ; and  sat,  for  weeks  to- 
gether, a eating  nothing,  out  of  half  the 
gold  and  silver  dishes  as  has  ever  been 
lent  for  the  purpose  out  of  Storrses, 
and  Mortimerses,  or  Garrardses,  and 
Davenportseseses.  ” 

Excited,  as  it  appeared,  by  a sense 
of  injury,  I thought  he  never  would 
have  found  an  end  for  the  last  word. 
But  at  length  it  rolled  suddenly  away 
with  the  thunder. 

“Pardon  me,”  said  I,  “you  are  a 
well-favored,  well-made  man,  and  yet 
— forgive  me  — I find,  on  examining 
my  mind,  that  I associate  you  with  — 
that  my  recollection  indistinctly  makes 
you,  in  short — excuse  me  — a kind  of 
powerful  monster.” 

“ It  would  be  a wonder  if  it  did  n’t,” 
he  said.  “ Do  you  know  what  my 
points  are  ? ” 

“ No,”  said  I. 

“My  throat  and  my  legs,”  said  he. 
“ When  I don’t  set  for  a head,  I mostly 
sets  for  a throat  and  a pair  of  legs. 
Now,  granted  you  was  a painter,  and 
was  to  work  at  my  throat  for  a week 
together,  I suppose  you ’d  see  a lot  of 
lumps  and  bumps  there,  that  would 
never  be  there  at  all,  if  you  looked  at 
me,  complete,  instead  of  only  my  throat. 
Would  n’t  you  ? ” 

“ Probably,”  said  I,  surveying  him. 

“ Why,  it  stands  to  reason,”  said  the 
Model.  “ Work  another  week  at  my 
legs,  and  it  ’ll  be  the  same  thing.  You 
’ll  make  ’em  out  as  knotty  and  as  knob- 
by, at  last,  as  if  they  was  the  trunks 
of  two  old  trees.  Then,  take  and  stick 
my  legs  and  throat  on  to  another  man’s 
body,  and  you  ’ll  make  a reg’lar  mon- 
ster. And  that ’s  the  way  the  public 
gets  their . reg’lar  monsters,  every  first 
Monday  in  May,  when  the  Royal 
Academy  Exhibition  opens.” 

“You  are  a critic,”  said  I,  with  an 
air  of  deference. 

“ I ’m  in  an  uncommon  ill-humor,  if 


381 

that’s  it,”  rejoined  the  Model,  with 
great  indignation.  “As  if  it  warn’t  bad 
enough,  for  a bob  a hour,  for  a man  to 
be  mixing  himself  up  with  that  there 
jolly  old  furniter  that  one  ’ud  think  the 
public  know’d  the  wery  nails  in  by  this 
time,  — or  to  be  putting  on  greasy  old 
ats  and  cloaks,  and  playing  tambourines 
in  the  Bay  o’  Naples,  with  Wesuvius  a 
smokin’  according  to  pattern  in  the 
background,  and  the  wines  a bearing 
wonderful  in  the  middle  distance,  — or 
to  be  unpolitely  kicking  up  his  legs 
among  a lot  o’  gals,  with  no  reason 
whatever  in  his  mind  but  to  show  ’em, 

— as  if  this  warn’t  bad  enough,  I ’m  to 
go  and  be  thrown  out  of  employment 
too ! ” 

“ Surely  no  ! ” said  I.  _ 

“ Surely  yes,”  said  the  indignant  Mod- 
el. “ But  I ’ll  grow  one.” 

The  gloomy  and  threatening  manner 
in  which  he  muttered  the  last  words 
can  never  be  effaced  from  my  remem- 
brance. My  blood  ran  cold. 

I asked  of  myself,  what  was  it  that 
this  desperate  Being  was  resolved  to 
grow.  My  breast  made  no  response. 

I ventured  to  implore  him  to  explain, 
his  meaning.  With  a scornful  laugh,  he, 
uttered  this  dark  prophecy,  — 

“ I ’ll  grow  one.  And,  mark  mv 

WORDS,  IT  SHALL  HAUNT  YOU  ! ” 

We  parted  in  the  storm,  after  I had 
forced  half  a crown  on  his  acceptance, 
with  a trembling  hand.  I conclude  that 
something  supernatural  happened  to  thq 
steamboat,  as  it  bore  his  reeking  figure 
down  the  river ; but  it  never  got  into  the 
papers. 

Two  years  elapsed,  during  which  I 
followed  my  profession  without  any  vi- 
cissitudes, never  holding  so  much  as  a 
motion  of  course.  At  the  expiration  of 
that  period,  I found  myself  making  my 
way  home  to  the  Temple,  one  night,  in 
precisely  such  another  storm  of  thunder 
and  lightning  as  that  by  which  I had 
been  overtaken  on  board  the  steamboat, 

— except  that  this  storm,  bursting  over 
the  town  at  midnight,  was  rendered 
much  more  awful  by  the  darkness  and 
the  hour. 

As  I turned  into  my  court,  I really 
thought  a thunderbolt  would  fall,  and 
plough  the  pavement  up.  Every  brick 


382 


THE  GHOST  OF  ART 


and  stone  in  the  place  seemed  to  have 
an  echo  of  its  own  for  the  thunder.  The 
water-spouts  were  overcharged,  and  the 
rain  came  tearing  down  from  the  house- 
tops as  if  they  had  been  mountain- 
tops. 

Mrs.  Parkins,  my  laundress  — wife  of 
Parkins  the  porter,  then  newly  dead  of 
a dropsy  — had  particular  instructions  to 
place  a bedroom  candle  and  a match  un- 
der the  staircase  lamp  on  my  landing,  in 
order  that  I might  light  my  candle  there, 
whenever  I came  home.  Mrs.  Parkins 
invariably  disregarding  all  instructions, 
they  were  never  there.  Thus  it  hap- 
pened that  on  this  occasion  I groped 
my  way  into  my  sitting-room  to  find 
the  candle,  and  came  out  to  light  it. 

What  were  my  emotions  when,  under- 
neath the  staircase  lamp,  shining  with 
wet  as  if  he  had  never  been  dry  since 
our  last  meeting,  stood  the  mysterious 
Being  whom  I had  encountered  on  the 
steamboat  in  a thunder-storm,  two 
years  before ! His  prediction  rushed 
upon  my  mind,  and  I turned  faint. 

“ I said  I ’d  do  it,”  he  observed,  in 
a hollow  voice,  “ and  I have  done  it. 
May  I come  in?” 

“ Misguided  creature,  what  have  you 
done  ? ” I returned. 

“I  ’ll  let  you  know,”  was  his  reply, 
“if  you’ll  let  me  in.” 

Could  it  be  murder  that  he  had  done  ? 
And  had  he  been  so  successful  that  he 
wanted  to  do  it  again,  at  my  expense  ? 

I hesitated. 

“ May  I come  in  ? ” said  he. 

I inclined  my  head,  with  as  much  pres- 
ence of  mind  as  I could  command,  and 
he  followed  me  into  my  chambers. 
There  I saw  that  the  lower  part  of 
his  face  was  tied  up  in  what  is  com- 
monly called  a Belcher  handkerchief. 
He  slowly  removed  this  bandage,  and 
exposed  to  view  a long  dark  beard, 
curling  over  his  upper  lip,  twisting 
about  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and 
hanging  down  upon  his  breast. 

“What  is  this?”  I exclaimed  in- 
voluntarily, “and  what  have  you  be- 
come ? ” 

“ I am  the  Ghost  of  Art ! ” said  he. 

The  effect  of  these  words,  slowly  ut- 
tered in  the  thunder-storm  at  midnight, 
was  appalling  in  the  last  degree.  More 


dead  than  alive,  I surveyed  him  in  si- 
lence. 

“The  German  taste  came  up,”  said 
he,  “ and  threw  me  out  of  bread.  I 
am  ready  for  the  taste  now.” 

He  made  his  beard  a little  jagged 
with  his  hands,  folded  his  arms,  and 
said,  — 

“ Severity  ! ” 

I shuddered.  It  was  so  severe. 

He  made  his  beard  flowing  on  his 
breast,  and,  leaning  both  hands  on  the 
staff  of  a carpet-broom  which  Mrs. 
Parkins  had  left  among  my  books, 
said,  — 

“ Benevolence.” 

I stood  transfixed.  The  change  of 
sentiment  was  entirely  in  the  beard. 
The  man  might  have  left  his  face  alone, 
or  had  no  face.  The  beard  did  every- 
thing. 

He  lay  down,  on  his  back,  on  my  ta- 
ble, and  with  that  action  of  his  head 
threw  up  his  beard  at  the  chin. 

“ That ’s  death  ! ” said  he. 

He  got  off  my  table,  and,  looking  up 
at  the  ceiling,  cocked  his  beard  a little 
awry  ; at  the  same  time  making  it  stick 
out  before  him. 

“ Adoration,  or  a vow  of  vengeance,” 
he  observed. 

He  turned  his  profile  to  me,  making 
his  upper  lip  very  bulgy  with  the  upper 
part  of  his  beard. 

“ Romantic  character,”  said  he. 

He  looked  sideways  out  of  his  beard, 
as  if  it  were  an 'ivy-bush.  “ Jealousy,” 
said  he.  He  gave  it  an  ingenious  twist 
in  the  air,  and  informed  me  that  he  was 
carousing.  He  made  it  shaggy  with 
his  fingers,  and  it  was  despair ; lank, 
and  it  was  avarice  ; tossed  it  all  kinds 
of  ways,  and  it  was  rage.  The  beard 
did  everything. 

“ I am  the  Ghost  of  Art,”  said  he. 
“ Two  bob  a day  now,  and  more  when 
it ’s  longer  ! Hair ’s  the  true  expres- 
sion. There  is  no  other.  I said  I ’d 

GROW  IT,  AND  I *VE  GROWN  IT,  AND  IT 
SHALL  HAUNT  YOU  ! ” 

He  may  have  tumbled  down  stairs  in 
the  dark,  but  he  never  walked  down  or 
ran  down.  I looked  over  the  banisters, 
and  I was  alone  with  the  thunder. 

Need  I add  more  of  my  terrific  fate? 
It  has  haunted  me  ever  since.  It 


GHOST  OF  ART. 


W£  UBRMtf 
OF  THF  ftlo 

usivtKin  of  tawoB 


OUT  OF  TOWN. 


333 


glares  upon  me  from  the  walls  of  the 
Royal  Academy,  (except  when  M aclise 
subdues  it  to  his  genius,)  it  fills  my  soul 
with  terror  at  the  British  Institution,  it 
lures  young  artists  on  to  their  destruc- 


OUT OF 


Sitting,  on  a bright  September 
morning,  among  my  books  and  papers  at 
my  open  window  on  the  cliff  overhang- 
ing the  sea-beach,  I have  the  sky  and 
ocean  framed  before  me  like  a beautiful 
picture.  A beautiful  picture,  but  with 
such  movement  in  it,  such  changes  of 
light  upon  the  sails  of  ships  and  wake 
of  steamboats,  such  dazzling  gleams  of 
silver  far  out  at  sea,  such  fresh  touches 
on  the  crisp  wave-tops  as  they  break 
and  roll  towards  me,  — a picture  with 
such  music  in  the  billowy  rush  upon  the 
shingle,  the  blowing  of  the  morning 
wind  through  the  corn-sheaves  where 
the  farmers’  wagons  are  busy,  the  sing- 
ing of  the  larks,  and  the  distant  voices 
of  children  at  play,  — such  charms  of 
sight  and  sound  as  all  the  galleries  on 
earth  can  but  poorly  suggest. 

So  dreamy  is  the  murmur  of  the  sea 
% below  my  window,  that  I may  have  been 
here,  for  anything  I know,  one  hundred 
years.  Not  that  I have  grown  old,  for, 
daily  on  the  neighboring  downs  and 
grassy  hillsides,  I find  that  I can  still 
in  reason  walk  any  distance,  jump  over 
anything,  and  climb  up  anywhere  ; but, 
that  the  sound  of  the  ocean  seems  to 
have  become  so  customary  to  my  mus- 
ings,  and  other  realities  seem  so  to  have 
gone  aboard  ship  and  floated  away  over 
the  horizon,  that,  for  aught  I will  un- 
dertake to  the  contrary,  I am  the  en- 
chanted son  of  the  King  my  father,  shut 
up  in  a tower  on  the  sea-shore,  for  pro- 
tection against  an  old  she-goblin  who 
insisted  on  being  my  godmother,  and 
who  foresaw  at  the  font  — wonderful 
creature! — that  I should  get  into  a 


tion.  Go  where  I will,  the  Ghost  of 
Art,  eternally  working  the  passions  in 
hair,  and  expressing  everything  by 
beard,  pursues  me.  The  prediction  is  ac- 
complished, and  the  victim  has  no  rest. 


TOWN. 


scrape  before  I was  twenty-one.  I re- 
member to  have  been  in  a City  (my 
Royal  parent’s  dominions,  I suppose) 
and  apparently  not  long  ago  either,  that 
was  in  the  dreariest  condition.  The 
principal  inhabitants  had  all  been 
changed  into  old  newspapers,  and  in 
that  form  were  preserving  their  window- 
blinds  from  dust,  and  wrapping  all  their 
smaller  household  gods  in  curl-papers. 
I walked  through  gloomy  streets  where 
every  house  was  shut  up  and  newspa- 
pered,  and  where  my  solitary  footsteps 
echoed  on  the  deserted  pavements.  In 
the  public  rides  there  were  no  carriages, 
no  horses,  no  animated  existence,  but  a 
few  sleepy  policemen,  and  a few  adven- 
turous boys  taking  advantage  of  the 
devastation  to  swarm  up  the  lamp-posts. 
In  the  Westward  streets,  there  was  no 
traffic  ; in  the  Westward  shops,  no  bus- 
iness. The  water-patterns  which  the 
’Prentices  had  trickled  out  on  the  pave- 
ments early  in  the  morning,  remained 
uneffaced  by  human  feet.  At  the  cor- 
ners of  mews,  Cochin-China  fowls 
stalked  gaunt  and  savage  ; nobody  be- 
ing left  in  the  deserted  city  (as  it  ap- 
peared to  me),  to  feed  them.  Public 
houses,  where  splendid  footmen  swing- 
ing their  legs  over  gorgeous  hammer- 
cloths  beside  wigged  coachmen  were 
wont  to  regale,  were  silent,  and  the  un- 
used pewter  pots  shone,  too  bright  for 
business,  on  the  shelves.  I beheld  a 
Punch’s  show  leaning  against  a wall 
near  Park  Lane,  as  if  it  had  fainted. 
It  was  deserted,  and  there  were  none 
to  heed  its  desolation.  In  Belgrave 
Square  I met  the  last  man,  — an  ostler. 


334 


OUT  OF  TOWN. 


— sitting  on  a post  in  a ragged  red 
waistcoat,  eating  straw,  and  mildewing 
away. 

If  I recollect  the  name  of  the  little 
town  on  whose  shore  this  sea  is  mur- 
muring, — but  I am  not  just  now,  as  I 
have  premised,  to  be  relied  upon  for 
anything,  — it  is  Pavilionstone.  Within 
a quarter  of  a century,  it  was  a little 
fishing  town,  and  they  do  say  that  the 
time  was  when  it  was  a little  smuggling 
town.  I have  heard  that  it  was  rather 
famous  in  the  hollands  and  brandy  way, 
and  that  coevally  with  that  reputation 
the  lamplighter’s  was  considered  a bad 
life  at  the  assurance  offices.  It  was 
observed  that  if  he  were  not  particular 
about  lighting  up,  he  lived  in  peace  ; 
but  that  if  he  made  the  best  of  the  oil- 
lamps  in  the  steep  and  narrow  streets, 
he  usually  fell  over  the  cliff  at  an  early 
age.  Now,  gas  and  electricity  run  to 
the  very  water’s  edge,  and  the  South- 
eastern Railway  Company  screech  at 
us  in  the  dead  of  night. 

But  the  old  little  fishing  and  smug- 
gling town  remains,  and  is  so  tempting 
a place  for  the  latter  purpose,  that  I 
think  of  going  out  some  night  next 
week,  in  a fur  cap  and  a pair  of  petticoat 
trousers,  and  running  an  empty  tub,  as 
a kind  of  archaeological  pursuit.  Let 
nobody  with  corns  come  to  Pavilion- 
stone,  for  there  are  break-neck  flights  of 
ragged  steps,  connecting  the  principal 
streets  by  back-ways,  which  will  cripple 
that  visitor  in  half  an  hour.  These  are 
the  ways  by  which,  when  I run  that  tub, 
I shall  escape.  I shall  make  a Ther- 
mopylae of  the  corner  of  one  of  them, 
defend  it  with  my  cutlass  against  the 
coast-guard  until  my  brave  companions 
have  sheered  off,  then  dive  into  the 
darkness,  and  regain  my  Susan’s  arms. 
In  connection  with  these  break-neck 
steps  I.  observe  some  wooden  cottages, 
with  tumble-down  out-houses,  and  back- 
yards three  feet  square,  adorned  with 
garlands  of  dried  fish,  in  which  (though 
the  General  Board  of  Health  might 
object)  my  Susan  dwells. 

The  Southeastern  Company  have 
brought  Pavilionstone  into  such  vogue, 
with  their  tidal  trains  and  splendid 
steam-packets,  that  a new  Pavilionstone 
is  rising  up.  I am,  myself,  of  New 


Pavilionstone.  We  are  a little  mortary 
and  limy  at  present,  but  we  are  getting 
on  capitally.  Indeed,  we  were  getting 
on  so  fast,  at  one  time,  that  we  rather 
overdid  it,  and  built  a street  of  shops, 
the  business  of  which  may  be  expected 
to  arrive  in  about  ten  years.  We  are 
sensibly  laid  out  in  general ; and  with  a 
little  care  and  pains  (by  no  meanfe  want- 
ing, so  far),  shall  become  a very  pretty 
place.  W e ought  to  be,  for  our  situation 
is  delightful,  our  air  is  delicious,  and 
our  breezy  hills  and  downs,  carpeted 
with  wild  thyme,  and  decorated  with 
millions  of  wild-flowers,  are,  on  the 
faith  of  a pedestrian,  perfect.  In  New 
Pavilionstone  we  are  a little  too  much 
addicted  to  small  windows  with  more 
bricks  in  them  than  glass,  and  we  are 
not  over-fanciful  in  the  way  of  decora- 
tive architecture,  and  we  get  unexpected 
sea  views  through  cracks  in  the  street 
doors ; on  the  whole,  however,  we  are 
very  snug  and  comfortable,  and  well 
accommodated.  But  the  Home  Secre- 
tary (if  there  be  such  an  officer)  cannot 
too  soon  shut  up  the  burial-ground  of 
the  old  parish  church.  It  is  in  the 
midst  of  us,  and  Pavilionstone  will  get 
no  good  of  it,  if  it  be  too  long  left 
alone. 

The  lion  of  Pavilionstone  is  its  Great 
Hotel.  A dozen  years  ago,  going  over 
to  Paris  by  Southeastern  Tidal  Steam- 
er, you  used  to  be  dropped  upon  the 
platform  of  the  main  line,  Pavilionstone 
Station  (not  a junction  then),  at  eleven 
o’clock  on  a dark  winter’s  night,  in  a » 
roaring  wind ; and  in  the  howling  wil- 
derness outside  the  station  was  a short 
omnibus  which  brought  you  up  by  the 
forehead  the  instant  you  got  in  at  the 
door;  and  nobody  cared  about  you, 
and  you  were  alone  in  the  world.  You 
bumped  over  infinite  chalk,  until  you 
were  turned  out  at*  a strange  building 
which  had  just  left  off  being  a barn 
without  having  quite  begun  to  be  a 
house,  where  nobody  expected  your 
coming,  or  knew  what  to  do  with  you 
when  you  were  come,  and  where  you 
were  usually  blown  about,  until  you 
happened  to  be  blown  against  the  cold 
beef,  and  finally  into  bed.  At  five  in 
the  morning  you  were  blown  out  of 
bed,  and  after  a dreary  breakfast,  with 


OUT  OF  TOWN. 


385 


crumpled  company,  in  the  midst  of 
confusion,  were  hustled  on  board  a 
steamboat  and  lay  wretched  on  deck 
until  you  saw  France  lunging  and 
surging  at  you  with  great  vehemence 
over  the  bowsprit. 

Now,  you  come  down  to  Pavilion- 
stone  in  a free-and-easy  manner,  an  ir- 
responsible agent,  made  over  in  trust 
to  the  Southeastern  Company,  until 
ou  get  out  of  the  railway-carriage  at 
igh -water  mark.  If  you  are  crossing 
by  the  boat  at  once,  you  have  nothing 
to  do  but  walk  on  board  and  be  happy 
there  if  you  can,  — I can’t.  If  you  are 
going  to  our  Great  Pavilionstone  Hotel, 
the  sprightliest  porters  under  the  sun, 
whose  cheerful  looks  are  a pleasant  wel- 
come, shoulder  your  luggage,  drive  it 
off  in  vans,  bowl  it  away  in  trucks,  and 
enjoy  themselves  in  playing  athletic 
games  with  it.  If  you  are  for  public 
life  at  our  Great  Pavilionstone  Hotel, 
you  walk  into  that  establishment  as 
if  it  were  your  club,  and  find  ready 
for  you  your  news-room,  dining-room, 
smoking-room,  billiard-room,  music- 
room,  public  breakfast,  public  dinner 
twice  a day  (one  plain,  one  gorgeous), 
hot  baths,  and  cold  baths.  If  you  want 
to  be  bored,  there  are  plenty  of  bores 
always  ready  for  you,  and  from  Saturday 
to  Monday  in  particular,  you  can  be 
bored  (if  you  like  it)  through  and 
through.  Should  you  want  to  be  pri- 
vate at  our  Great  Pavilionstone  Hotel, 
say  but  the  word,  look  at  the  list  of 
Qharges,  choose  your  floor,  name  your 
figure,  — there  you  are,  established  in 
your  castle,  by  the  day,  week,  month, 
or  year,  innocent  of  all  comers  or  goers, 
unless,  you  have  my  fancy  for  walking 
early  in  the  morning  down  the  groves 
of  boots  and  shoes,  which  so  regularly 
flourish  at  all  the  chamber  doors  before 
breakfast,  that  it  seems  to  me  as  if 
nobody  ever  got  up  or  took  them  in. 
Are  you  going  across  the  Alps,  and 
would  you  like  to  air  your  Italian  at  our 
Great  Pavilionstone  Hotel  ? Talk  to  the 
Manager, — always  conversational,  ac- 
complished, and  polite.  Do  you  want 
to  be  aided,  abetted,  comforted,  or  ad- 
vised, at  our  Great  Pavilionstone  Hotel? 
Send  for  the  good  landlord,  and  he  is 
your  friend.  Should  you  or  any  one 

25 


belonging  to  you  ever  be  taken  ill  at 
our  Great  Pavilionstone  Hotel,  you  will 
not  soon  forget  him  or  his  kind  wife. 
And  when  you  pay  your  bill  at  our 
Great  Pavilionstone  Hotel,  you  will  not 
be  put  out  of  humor  by  anything  you 
find  in  it. 

A thoroughly  good  inn,  in  the  days 
of  coaching  and  posting,  was  a noble 
place.  But  no  such  inn  would  have 
been  equal  to  the  reception  of  four  or 
five  hundred  people,  all  of  them  wet 
through,  and  half  of  them  dead  sick, 
every  day  in  the  year.  This  is  where 
we  shine,  in  our  Pavilionstone  Hotel. 
Again,  who,  coming  and  going,  pitch- 
ing and  tossing,  boating  and  training, 
hurrying  in  and  flyingr  out,  could  ever 
have  calculated  the  fees  to  be  paid  at 
an  old-fashioned  house  ? In  our  Pavil- 
ionstone Hotel  vocabulary,  there  is  no 
such  word  as  “ fee.”  .Everything  is  done 
for  you ; every  service  is  provided  at 
a fixed  and  reasonable  charge ; all  the 
prices  are  hung  up  in  all  the  rooms ; 
and  you  can  make  out  your  own  bill 
beforehand,  as  well  as  the  bookkeeper. 

In  the  case  of  your  being  a pictorial 
artist,  desirous  of  studying  at  small  ex- 
pense the  physiognomies  and  beards  of 
different  nations,  come,  on  receipt  of 
this,  to  Pavilionstone.  You  shall  find 
all  the  nations  of  the  earth,  and  all  the 
styles  of  shaving  and  not  shaving,  hair- 
cutting and  hair-letting-alone,  forever 
flowing  through  our  hotel.  Couriers 
you  shall  see  by  hundreds ; fat  leathern 
bags  for  five-franc  pieces,  closing  with 
violent  snaps,  like  discharges  of  fire- 
arms, by  thousands;  more  luggage  in 
a morning  than,  fifty  years  ago,  all  Eu- 
rope saw  in  a week.  Looking  at  trains, 
steamboats,  sick  travellers,  and  luggage, 
is  our  great  Pavilionstone  recreation. 
We  are  not  strong  in  other  public 
amusements.  We  have  a Literary  and 
Scientific  Institution,  and  we  have  a 
Workingmen’s  Institution,  — may  it 
hold  many  gypsy  holidays  in  summer 
fields,  with  the  kettle  boiling,  the  band 
of  music  playing,  and  the  people  dan- 
cing ; and  may  I be  on  the  hillside, 
looking  on  with  pleasure  at  a wholesome 
sight  too  rare  in  England  ! — and  we 
have  two  or  three  churches  and  more 
chapels  than  I have  yet  added  up.  But 


386 


OUT  OF  TOWN . 


public  amusements  are  scarce  with  us. 
If  a poor  theatrical  manager  comes  with 
his  company  to  give  us,  in  a loft,  Mary 
Bax,  or  the  Murder  on  the  Sand  Hills, 
we  don’t  care  much  for  him,  — starve  him 
out,  in  fact.  W e take  more  kindly  to  wax- 
work,  especially  if  it  moves  ; in  which 
case  it  keeps  much  clearer  of  the  second 
commandment  than  when  it  is  still. 
Cooke’s  Circus  (Mr.  Cooke  is  my  friend, 
and  always  leaves  a good  name  behind 
him)  gives  us  only  a night  in  passing 
through.  Nor  does  the  travelling  me- 
nagerie think  us  worth  a longer  visit. 
It  gave  us  a look-in  the  other  day, 
bringing  with  it  the  residentiary  van  with 
the  stained-glass  windows,  which  her 
Majesty  kept  ready-made  at  Windsor 
Castle,  until  she  found  a suitable  oppor- 
tunity of  submitting  it  for  the  proprietor’s 
acceptance.  I brought  away  five  won- 
derments from  this  exhibition.  I have 
wondered  ever  since,  Whether  the  beasts 
ever  do  get  used  to  those  small  places 
of  confinement  ; Whether  the  monkeys 
have  that  very  horrible  flavor  in  their 
free  state  ; Whether  wild  animals  have  a 
natural  ear  for  time  and  tune,  and  there- 
fore every  four-footed  creature  began  to 
howl  in  despair  when  the  band  began 
to  play ; What  the  giraffe  does  with  his 
neck  when  his  cart  is  shut  up  ; and, 
Whether  the  elephant  feels  ashamed 
of  himself  when  he  is  brought  out  of 
his  den  to  stand  on  his  head  in  the 
presence  of  the  whole  collection. 

We  are  a tidal  harbor  at  Pavilion- 
stone,  as  indeed  I have  implied  already 
in  my  mention  of  tidal  trains.  At  low 
water  we  are  a heap  of  mud,  with  an 
empty  channel  in  it  where  a couple  of 
men  in  big  boots  always  shovel  and 
scoop, — with  what  exact  object,  I am 
unable  to  say.  At  that  time,  all  the 
stranded  fishing-boats  turn  over  on 
their  sides,  as  if  they  were  dead  marine 
monsters  ; the  colliers  and  other  ship- 
ping stick  disconsolate  in  the  mud  ; the 
steamers  look  as  if  their  white  chimneys 
would  never  smoke  more,  and  their  red 
paddles  never  turn  again  ; the  green 
sea  slime  and  weed  upon  the  rough 
stones  at  the  entrance  seem  records  of 
obsolete  high  tides  never  more  to  flow  ; 
the  flagstaff  halyards  droop  ; the  very 
little  wooden  lighthouse  shrinks  ip  the 


idle  glare  of  the  sun.  And  here  I may 
observe  of  the  very  little  wooden  light- 
house, that  when  it  is  lighted  at  night, 
— red  and  green,  — it  looks  so  like  a 
medical  man’s,  that  several  distracted 
husbands  have  at  various  times  been 
found,  on  occasions  of  premature  do- 
mestic anxiety,  going  round  and  round 
it,  trying  to  find  the  night-bell. 

But  the  moment  the  tide  begins  to 
make,  the  Pavilionstone  Harbor  begins 
to  revive.  It  feels  the  breeze  of  the 
rising  water  before  the  water  comes, 
and  begins  to  flutter  and  stir.  When 
the  little  shallow  waves  creep  in,  barely 
overlapping  one  another,  the  vanes  at 
the  mastheads  wake,  and  become  agi- 
tated. As  the  tide  rises,  the  fishing- 
boats  get  into  good  spirits  and  dance, 
the  flagstaff  hoists  a bright-red  flag,  the 
steamboat  smokes,  cranes  creak,  horses 
and  carriages  dangle  in  the  air,  stray 
passengers  and  luggage  appear.  Now, 
the  shipping  is  afloat,  and  comes  up 
buoyantly  to  look  at  the  wharf.  Now, 
the  carts  that  have  come  down  for  coals 
load  away  as  hard  as  they  can  load. 
Now,  the  steamer  smokes  immensely, 
and  occasionally  blows  at  the  paddle- 
boxes  like  a vaporous  whale,  — greatly 
disturbing  nervous  loungers.  Now, 
both  the  tide  and  the  breeze  have 
risen,  and  you  are  holding  your  hat  on 
(if  you  want  to  see  how  the  ladies  hold 
their  hats  on,  with  a stay,  passing  over 
the  broad  brim  and  down  the  nose, 
come  to  Pavilionstone).  Now,  every- 
thing in  the  harbor  splashes,  dashes, 
and  bobs.  Now,  the  Down  Tidal  Train 
is  telegraphed,  and  you  know  (without 
knowing  how  you  know),  that  two  hun- 
dred and  eighty-seven  people  are  com- 
ing. Now,  the  fishing-boats  that  have 
been  out  sail  in  at  the  top  of  the  tide. 
Now,  the  bell  goes,  and  the  locomotive 
hisses  and  shrieks,  and  the  train  comes 
gliding  in,  and  the  two  hundred  and 
eighty-seven  come  scuffling  out.  Now, 
there  is  not  only  a tide  of  w^ater,  but  a 
tide  of  people,  and  a tide  of  luggage,  — 
all  tumbling  and  flowing  and  bouncing 
about  together.  Now,  after  infinite  bus- 
tle, the  steamer  steams  opt,  and  we 
(on  the  pier)  are  all  delighted  when  she 
rolls  as  if  she  would  roll  her  funnel  out. 
and  are  all  disappointed  when  she  don’t 


OUT  OF  THE  SEASON. 


387 


Now,  the  other  steamer  is  coming  in, 
and  the  Custom-House  prepares,  and 
the  wharf-laborers  assemble,  and  the 
hawsers  are  made  ready,  and  the  Hotel 
porters  come  rattling  down  with  van 
and  truck,  eager  to  begin  more  Olympic 
games  with  more  luggage.  And  this  is 
the  way  in  which  we  go  on,  down  at 
Pavilionstone,  every  tide.  And  if  you 


want  to  live  a life  of  luggage,  or  to  see 
it  lived,  or  to  breathe  sweet  air  which 
will  send  you  to  sleep  at  a moment’s 
notice  at  any  period  of  the  day  or  night, 
or  to  disport  yourself  upon  or  in  the  sea, 
or  to  scamper  about  Kent,  or  to  come 
out  of  town  for  the  enjoyment  of  all  or 
any  of  these  pleasures,  come  to  PaviU 
ionstone. 


OUT  OF  THE  SEASON. 


It  fell  to  my  lot,  this  last  bleak 
spring,  to  find  myself  in  a watering- 
place  out  of  the  season.  A vicious 
northeast  squall  blew  me  into  it  from 
foreign  parts,  and  I tarried  in  it  alone 
for  three  days,  resolved  to  be  exceed- 
ingly busy. 

On  the  first  day,  I began  business  by 
looking  for  two  hours  at  the  sea,  and 
staring  the  Foreign  Militia  out  of 
countenance.  Having  disposed  of  these 
important  engagements,  I sat  down  at 
one  of  the  two  windows  of  my  room,  in- 
tent on  doing  something  desperate  in  the 
way  of  literary  composition,  and  writing 
a chapter  of  unheard-of  excellence  — 
with  which  the  present  essay  has  no 
connection. 

It  is  a remarkable  quality  in  a water- 
ing-place out  of  the  season,  that  every- 
thing in  it  will  and  must  be  looked  at. 
I had  no  previous  suspicion  of  this  fatal 
truth  ; but  the  moment  I sat  down  to 
write,  I began  to  perceive  it.  I had 
scarcely  fallen  into  my  most  promising 
attitude,  and  dipped  my  pen  in  the  ink, 
when  I found  the  clock  upon  the  pier 
— a red-faced  clock  with  a white  rim  — 
importuning  me  in  a highly  vexatious 
manner  to  consult  my  watch,  and  see 
how  I was  off  for  Greenwich  time. 
Having  no  intention  of  making  a voy- 
age or  taking  an  observation,  I had  not 
the  least  need  of  Greenwich  time,  and 
could  have  put  up  with  watering-place 
time  as  a sufficiently  accurate  article. 


The  pier  clock,  however,  persisting,  I 
felt  it  necessary  to  lay  down  my  pen, 
compare  my  watch  with  him,  and  fall 
into  a grave  solicitude  about  half-sec- 
onds. I had  taken  up  my  pen  again, 
and  was  about  to  commence  that  valua- 
ble chapter,  when  a Custom-House  cut- 
ter under  the  window  requested  that  I 
would  hold  a naval  review  of  her  imme- 
diately. 

It  was  impossible,  under  the  circum- 
stances, for  any  mental  resolution, 
merely  human,  to  dismiss  the  Custom- 
House  cutter,  because  the  shadow  of  her 
topmast  fell  upon  my  paper,  and  the 
vane  played  on  the  masterly  blank 
chapter.  I was  therefore  under  the 
necessity  of  going  to  the  other  window ; 
sitting  astride  of  the  chair  there,  like 
Napoleon  bivouacking  in  the  print  ; 
and  inspecting  the  cutter  as  she  lay 
all  that  day,  in  the  way  of  my  chapter, 
O ! She  was  rigged  to  carry  a quanti- 
ty of  canvas,  but  her  hull  was  so  very 
small  that  four  giants  aboard  of  her 
(three  men  and  a boy)  who  were  vigi- 
lantly scraping  at  her,  all  together,  in- 
spired me  with  a terror  lest  they  should 
scrape  her  away.  A fifth  giant,  who 
appeared  to  consider  himself  “ below,  ” 
— as  indeed  he  was,  from  the  waist 
downwards, — meditated,  in  such  close 
proximity  with  the  little  gusty  chimney- 
pipe,  that  he  seemed  to  be  smoking  it. 
Several  boys  looked  on  from  the  wharf, 
and,  when  the  gigantic  attention  ap- 


388 


OUT  OF  THE  SEASON. 


peared  to  be  fully  occupied,  one  or  oth- 
er of  these  would  furtively  swing  him- 
self in  mid-air  over  the  Custom-House 
cutter  by  means  of  a line  pendent  from 
her  rigging,  like  a young  spirit  of  the 
storm.  Presently,  a sixth  hand  brought 
down  two  little  water-casks  ; presently 
afterwards,  a truck  came  and  delivered 
a hamper.  I was  now  under  an  obliga- 
tion to  consider  that  the  cutter  was  go- 
ing on  a cruise,  and  to  wonder  where  she 
was  going,  and  when  she  was  going,  and 
why  she  was  going,  and  at  what  date 
she  might  be  expected  back,  and  who 
commanded  her  ? With  these  pressing 
questions  I was  fully  occupied  when  the 
Packet,  making  ready  to  go  across,  and 
blowing  off  her  spare  steam,  roared, 
“ Look  at  me  ! ” 

It  became  a positive  duty  to  look  at 
the  Packet  preparing  to  go  across ; 
aboard  of  which,  the  people  newly  come 
down  by  the  railroad  were  hurrying  in  a 
great  fluster.  The  crew  had  got  their 
tarry  overalls  on,  — and  one  knew  what 
that  meant,  — not  to  mention  the  white 
basins,  ranged  in  neat  little  piles  of  a 
dozen  each,  behind  the  door  of  the 
after-cabin.  One  lady  as  I looked,  one 
resigning  and  far-seeing  woman,  took 
her  basin  from  the  store  of  crockery,  as 
she  might  have  taken  a refreshment- 
ticket,  laid  herself  down  on  deck  with 
that  utensil  at  her  ear,  muffled  her  feet 
in  one  shawl,  solemnly  covered  her 
countenance  after  the  antique  manner 
with  another,  and  on  the  completion 
of  these  preparations  appeared  by  the 
strength  of  her  volition  to  become  in- 
sensible. The  mail-bags  (O  that  I my- 
self had  the  sea-iegs  of  a mail-bag  !) 
were  tumbled  aboard  ; the  Packet  left 
off  roaring,  warped  out,  and  made  at 
the  white  line  upon  the  bar.  One  dip, 
one  roll,  one  break  of  the  sea  over  her 
bows,  and  Moore’s  Almanac  or  the 
sage  Raphael  could  not  have  told  me 
more  of  the  state  of  things  aboard  than 
I knew. 

The  famous  chapter  was  all  but  be- 
gun now,  and  would  have  been  quite 
begun,  but  for  the  wind.  It  was  blow- 
ing stiffly  from  the  east,  and  it  rumbled 
in  the  chimney  and  shook  the  house. 
That  was  not  much  ; but,  looking  out 
into  the  wind’s  gray  eye  for  inspiration, 


I laid  down  my  pen  again  to  make  the 
remark  to  myself,  how  emphatically 
everything  by  the  sea  declares  that  it 
has  a great  concern  in  the  state  of  the 
wind.  The  trees  blown  all  one  way ; 
the  defences  of  the  harbor  reared  high- 
est and  strongest  against  the  raging 
point ; the  shingle  flung  up  on  the  beach 
from  the  same  direction ; the  number 
of  arrows  pointed  at  the  common  ene- 
my ; the  sea  tumbling  in  and  rushing 
towards  them,  as  if  it  were  inflamed  by 
the  sight.  This  put  it  in  my  head  that 
I really  ought  to  go  out  and  take  a 
walk  in  the  wind  ; so  I gave  up  the 
magnificent  chapter  for  that  day,  en- 
tirely persuading  myself  that  I was  un- 
der a moral  obligation  to  have  a blow. 

I had  a good  one,  and  that  on  the 
high  road  — the  very  high  road  — on 
the  top  of  the  cliffs,  where  I met  the 
stage-coach  with  all  the  outsides  hold- 
ing their  hats  on  and  themselves  too, 
and  overtook  a flock  of  sheep  with  the 
wool  about  their  necks  blown  into  such 
great  ruffs  that  they  looked  like  fleecy 
owds.  The  wind  played  upon  the  light- 
house as  if  it  w'ere  a great  whistle,  the 
spray  w7as  driven  over  the  sea  in  a 
cloud  of  haze,  the  ships  rolled  and 
pitched  heavily,  and  at  intervals  long 
slants  and  flaws  of  light  made  moun- 
tain-steeps of  communication  between 
the  ocean  and  the  sky.  A walk  of  ten 
miles  brought  me  to  a seaside  town 
without  a cliff,  w'hich,  like  the  towrn  I 
had  come  from,  w7as  out  of  the  season 
too.  Half  of  the  houses  were  shut  up  ; 
half  of  the  other  half  were  to  let ; the 
town  might  have  done  as  much  busi- 
ness as  it  was  doing  then,  if  it  had  been 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Nobody 
seemed  to  flourish  save  the  attorney; 
his  clerk’s  pen  was  going  in  the  bow- 
window  of  his  wooden  house  ; his  brass 
doorplate  alone  was  free  from  salt, 
and  had  been  polished  up  that  morning. 
On  the  beach,  among  the  rough  luggers 
and  capstans,  groups  of  storm-beaten 
boatmen,  like  a sort  of  marine  monsters, 
watched  under  the  lee  of  those  objects,  or 
stood  leaning  forward  against  the  wind, 
looking  out  through  battered  spy-glasses. 
The  parlor  bell  in  the  Admiral  Benbow 
had  grown  so  flat  with  being  out  of  the 
season,  that  neither  could  I hear  it  ring 


OUT  OF  THE  SEASON. 


389 


when  I pulled  the  handle  for  lunch, 
nor  could  the  young  woman  in  black 
stockings  and  strong  shoes,  who  acted 
as  waiter  out  of  the  season,  until  it  had 
been  tinkled  three  times. 

Admiral  Benbow’s  cheese  was  out  of 
the  season,  but  his  home-made  bread 
was  good,  and  his  beer  was  perfect. 
Deluded  by  some  earlier  spring  day 
which  had  been  warm  and  sunny,  the 
Admiral  had  cleared  the  firing  out  of 
his  parlor  stove,  and  had  put  some 
flower-pots  in,  — which  was  amiable 
and  hopeful  in  the  Admiral,  but  not 
judicious  : the  room  being,  at  that  pres- 
ent visiting,  transcendently  cold.  I 
therefore  took  the  liberty  of  peeping 
out  across  a little  stone  passage  into  the 
Admiral’s  kitchen,  and,  seeing  a high 
settle  with  its  back  towards  me  drawn 
out  in  front  of  the  Admiral’s  kitchen 
fire,  I strolled  in,  bread  and  cheese  in 
hand,  munching  and  looking  about. 
One  landsman  and  two  boatmen  were 
seated  on  the  settle,  smoking  pipes 
and  drinking  beer  out  of  thick  pint 
crockery  mugs,  — mugs  peculiar  to 
such  places,  with  party-colored  rings 
round  them,  and  ornaments  between 
the  rings  like  frayed-out  roots.  The 
landsman  was  relating  his  experience, 
as  yet  only  three  nights’  old,  of  a fear- 
ful running-down  case  in  the  Channel, 
and  therein  presented  to  my  imagina- 
tion a sound  of  music  that  it  will  not 
soon  forget, 

“ At  that  identical  moment  of  time,” 
said  he  (he  was  a prosy  man  by  nature, 
who  rose  with  his  subject),  “ the  night 
being  light  and  calm,  but  with  a gray 
mist  upon  the  water  that  did  n’t  seem 
to  spread  for  more  than  two  or  three 
mile,  I was  walking  up  and  down  the 
wooden  causeway  next  the  pier,  off 
where  it  happened,  along  with  a friend 
of  mine,  which  his  name  is  Mr.  dock- 
er. Mr.  Clocker  is  a grocer  over  yon- 
der.” (From  the  direction  in  which  he 
pointed  the  bowl  of  his  pipe,  I might 
have  judged  Mr.  Clocker  to  be  a mer- 
man, established  in  the  grocery  trade  in 
five  - and  - twenty  fathoms  of  water.) 
“We  were  smoking  our  pipes,  and 
walking  up  and  down  the  causeway, 
talking  of  one  thing  and  talking  of  an- 
other. We  were  quite  alone  there,  ex- 


cept that  a few  hovellers  ” (the  Kentish 
name  for  ’longshore  boatmen  like  his 
companions)  “were  hanging  about 
their  lugs,  waiting  while  the  tide  made, 
as  hovellers  will.”  (One  of  the  two 
boatmen,  thoughtfully  regarding  me, 
shut  up  one  eye.  This  I understood  to 
mean,  first,  that  he  took  me  into  the 
conversation ; secondly,  that  he  con- 
firmed the  proposition  ; thirdly,  that  he 
announced  himself  as  a hoveller.) 
“ All  of  a sudden  Mr.  Clocker  and  me 
stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  by  hearing  a 
sound  come  through  the  stillness,  right 
over  the  sea,  like  a great  sorrowful 
flute  or  AEolian  harp.  We  did  n’t  in 
the  least  know  what  it  was  ; and  judge 
of  our  surprise  when  we  saw  the  hov- 
ellers, to  a man,  leap  into  the  boats  and 
tear  about  to  hoist  sail  and  get  off,  as 
if  they  had  every  one  of  ’em  gone,  in  a 
moment,  raving  mad  ! But  they  knew 
it  was  the  cry  of  distress  from  the  sink- 
ing emigrant  ship.” 

When  I got  back  to  my  watering- 
place  out  of  the  season,  and  had  done 
my  twenty  miles  in  good  style,  I found 
that  the  celebrated  Black  Mesmerist 
intended  favoring  the  public  that  even- 
ing in  the  Hall  of  the  Muses,  which  he 
had  engaged  for  the  purpose.  After  a 
good  dinner,  seated  by  the  fire  in  an 
easy-chair,  I began  to  waver  in  a design 
I had  formed  of  waiting  on  the  Black 
Mesmerist,  and  to  incline  towards  the 
expediency  of  remaining  where  I was. 
Indeed  a point  of  gallantry  was  involved 
in  my  doing  so,  inasmuch  as  I had  not 
left  France  alone,  but  had  come  from 
the  prisons  of  St.  Pelagie  with  my  dis- 
tinguished and  unfortunate  friend  Ma- 
dame Roland  (in  two  volumes  which  I 
bought  for  two  francs  each,  at  the  book- 
stall in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  Paris, 
at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Royale).  De- 
ciding to  pass  the  evening  tete-^-tete 
with  Madame  Roland,  I derived,  as  I 
always  do,  great  pleasure  from  that  spir- 
itual woman’s  society,  and  the  charms  of 
her  brave  soul  and  engaging  conversa- 
tion. I must  confess  that  if  she  had  only 
some  more  faults,  only  a few  more  pas- 
sionate failings  of  any  kind,  I might  love 
her  better  ; but  I am  content  to  believe 
that  the  deficiency  is  in  me,  and  not  in 
her.  We  spent  some  sadly  interesting 


39° 


OUT  OF  THE  SEASON. 


hours  together  on  this  occasion,  and 
she  told  me  again  of  her  cruel  discharge 
from  the  Abbaye,  and  of  her  being  re- 
arrested before  her  free  feet  had  sprung 
lightly  up  half  a dozen  steps  of  her 
own  staircase,  and  carried  off  to  the 

Jjrison  which  she  only  left  for  the  guil- 
otine. 

Madame  Roland  and  I took  leave  of 
one  another  before  midnight,  and  I 
went  to  bed  full  of  vast  intentions  for 
next  day,  in  connection  with  the  unpar- 
alleled chapter.  To  hear  the  foreign 
mail  steamers  coming  in  at  dawn  of 
day,  and  to  know  that  I was  not  aboard 
or  obliged  to  get  up,  was  very  comfort- 
able ; so  I rose  for  the  chapter  in  great 
force. 

I had  advanced  so  far  as  to  sit  down 
at  my  window  again  on  my  second  morn- 
ing, and  to  write  the  first  hah-.ine  of 
the  chapter  and  strike  it  out,  not  liking 
it,  when  my  conscience  reproached  me 
with  not  having  surveyed  the  watering- 
place  out  of  the  season,  after  all,  yester- 
day, but  with  having  gone  straight  out 
of  it  at  the  rate  of  four  miles  and  a half 
an  hour.  Obviously  the  best  amends 
that  I could  make  for  this  remissness 
was  to  go  and  look  at  it  without  an- 
other moment’s  delay.  So  — altogether 
as  a matter  of  duty  — I gave  up  the 
magnificent  chapter  for  another  day, 
and  sauntered  out  with  my  hands  in  my 
pockets. 

All  the  houses  and  lodgings  ever  let 
to  visitors  were  to  let  that?  morning. 
It  seemed  to  have  snowed  bills  with  To 
Let  upon  them.  This  put  me  upon 
thinking  what  the  owners  of  all  those 
apartments  did,  out  of  the  season  ; how 
they  employed  their  time  and  occupied 
their  minds.  They  could  not  be  al- 
ways going  to  the  Methodist  chapels,  of 
which  I passed  one  every  other  minute. 
They  must  have  some  other  recreation. 
Whether  they  pretended  to  take  one 
another’s  lodgings,  and  opened  one  an- 
other’s tea-caddies  in  fun?  Whether 
they  cut  slices  off  their  own  beef  and 
mutton,  and  made  believe  that  it  be- 
longed to  somebody  else?  Whether 
they  played  little  dramas  of  life  as  chil- 
dren do,  and  said,  “ I ought  to  come 
and  look  at  your  apartments,  and  you 
ought  to  ask  two  guineas  a week  too 


much  ; and  then  I ought  to  say  I must 
have  the  rest  of  the  day  to  think  of  it ; 
and  then  you  ought  to  say  that  another 
lady  and  gentleman  w'ith  no  children  in 
family  had  made  an  offer  very  ciose  to 
your  own  terms,  and  you  had  passed  your 
word  to  give  them  a positive  answer  in 
half  an  hour,  and  indeed  were  just  go- 
ing to  take  the  bill  down  when  you  heard 
the  knock  ; and  then  I ought  to  take 
them,  you  know  ” ? Twenty  such  spec- 
ulations engaged  my  thoughts.  Then, 
after  passing,  still  clinging  to  the  walls, 
defaced  rags  of  the  bills  of  last  year’s 
circus,  I came  to  a back  field  near  a 
timber-yard  where  the  circus  itself  had 
been,  and  where  there  was  yet  a sort 
of  monkish  tonsure  on  the  grass,  indi- 
cab ng  the  spot  where  the  young  lady 
had  gone  round  upon  her  pet  steed 
Firefly  in  her  daring  flight.  Turning 
into  the  town  again,  I came  among  the 
shops,  and  they  were  emphatically  out 
of  the  season.  The  chemist  had  no 
boxes  of  ginger-beer  powders,  no  beau- 
tifying seaside  soaps  and  washes,  no 
attractive  scents  ; nothing  but  his  great 
goggle-eyed  red  bottles,  looking  as  if 
the  winds  of  winter  and  the  drift  of 
the  salt  sea  had  inflamed  them.  The 
grocers’  hot  pickles,  Harvey’s  Sauce, 
Doctor  Kitchener’sZest,  Anchovy  Paste, 
Dundee  Marmalade,  and  the  whole 
stock  of  luxurious  helps  to  appetite, 
were  hibernating  somewhere  under- 
ground. The  china-shop  had  no  trifles 
from  anywhere.  The  Bazaar  had  given 
in  altogether,  and  presented  a notice  on 
the  shutters  that  this  establishment 
would  reopen  at  Whitsuntide,  and  that 
the  proprietor  in  the  mean  time  might 
be  heard  of  at  Wild  Lodge,  East  Cliff. 
At  the  Sea-bathing  Establishment,  a 
row  of  neat  little  wooden  houses  seven 
or  eight  feet  high,  I saw  the  proprie- 
tor in  bed  in  the  shower-bath.  As  to 
the  bathing-machines,  they  were  (how 
they  got  there  is  not  for  me  to  say) 
at  the  top  of  a hill  at  least  a mile  and 
a half  off.  The  library,  which  I had 
never  seen  otherwise  than  wide  open, 
was  tight  shut ; and  two  peevish  bald 
old  gentlemen  seemed  to  be  hermeti- 
cally sealed  up  inside,  eternally  reading 
the  paper.  That  wonderful  mystery, 
the  music -shop,  carried  it  off  as  usual 


OUT  OF  THE  SEASON. 


39i 


(except  that  it  had  more  cabinet  pianos 
in  stock),  as  if  season  or  no  season  were 
all  one  to  it.  It  made  the  same  pro- 
digious display  of  bright  brazen  wind- 
instruments,  horribly  twisted,  worth,  as 
I should  conceive,  some  thousands  of 
pounds,  and  which  it  is  utterly  impos- 
sible that  anybody  in  any  season  can 
ever  play  or  want  to  play.  It  had  five 
triangles  in  the  window,  six  pairs  of 
castanets,  and-  three  harps ; likewise 
every  polka  with  a colored  frontispiece 
that  ever  was  published,  from  the 
original  one  where  a smooth  male  and 
female  Pole  of  high  rank  are  coming  at 
the  observer  with  their  arms  akimbo, 
to  the  Ratcatcher’s  Daughter.  Aston- 
ishing establishment,  amazing  enigma  ! 
Three  other  shops  were  pretty  much 
out  of  the  season,  what  they  were  used 
to  be  in  it.  First,  the  shop  where  they 
sell  the  sailors’  watches,  which  had  still 
the  old  collection  of  enormous  time- 
keepers, apparently  designed  to  break  a 
fall  from  the  masthead,  with  places  to 
wind  them  up,  like  fire-plugs.  Second- 
ly, the  shop  where  they  sell  the  sailors’ 
clothing,  which  displayed  the  old  sou’- 
westers,  and  the  old  oily  suits,  and  the 
old  pea-jackets,  and  the  old  one  sea- 
chest,  with  its  handles  like  a pair  of  rope 
ear-rings.  Thirdly,  the  unchangeable 
shop  for  the  sale  of  literature  that  has 
been  left  behind.  Here  Dr.  Faustus  was 
still  going  down  to  very  red  and  yellow 
perdition,  under  the  superintendence  of 
three  green  personages  of  a scaly  hu- 
mor, with  excrescential  serpents  grow- 
ing out  of  their  blade-bones.  Here  the 
Golden  Dreamer,  and  the  Norwood 
Fortune-Teller,  were  still  on  sale  at  six- 
pence each,  with  instructions  for  mak- 
ing the  dumb  cake,  and  reading  desti- 
nies in  teacups,  and  with  a picture  of  a 
young  woman  with  a high  waist  lying 
on  a sofa  in  an  attitude  so  uncomforta- 
ble as  almost  to  account  for  her  dream- 
ing at  one  and  the  same  time  of  a con- 
flagration, a shipwreck,  an  earthquake, 
a skeleton,  a church-porch,  lightning, 
funerals  performed,  and  a young  man  in 
a bright  blue  coat  and  canary  panta- 
loons. Here  were  Little  Warblers  and 
Fairburn’s  Comic  Songsters.  Here  too 
were  ballads  on  the  old  ballad  paper 
and  in  the  old  confusion  of  types  ; with 


an  old  man  in  a cocked  hat,  and  an 
arm-chair,  for  the  illustration  to  Will 
Watch  the  bold  Smuggler;  and  the 
Friar  of  Orders  Gray,  represented  by 
a little  girl  in  a hoop,  with  a ship  in 
the  distance.  All  these  as  of  yore, 
when  they  were  infinite  delights  to 
me  ! 

It  took  me  so  long  fully  to  relish 
these  many  enjoyments,  that  I had  not 
more  than  an  hour  before  bedtime  to 
devote  to  Madame  Roland.  We  got 
on  admirably  together  on  the  subject  of 
her  convent  education,  and  I rose  next 
morning  with  the  full  conviction  that 
the  day  for  the  great  chapter  was  at  last 
arrived. 

It  had  fallen  calm,  however,  in  the 
night,  and  as  I sat  at  breakfast  I 
blushed  to  remember  that  I had  not  yet 
been  on  the  Downs.  I,  a walker,  and 
not  yet  on  the  Downs  ! Really,  on  so 
quiet  and  bright  a morning,  this  must 
be  set  right.  As  an  essential  part  of 
the  Whole  Duty  of  Man,  therefore,  I 
left  the  chapter  to  itself,  — for  the  pres- 
ent, — and  went  on  the  Downs.  They 
were  wonderfully  green  and  beautiful, 
and  gave  me  a good  deal  to  do.  When 
I had  done  with  the  free  air  and  the 
view,  I had  to  go  down  into  the  valley 
and  look  after  the  hops  (which  I know 
nothing  about),  and  to  be  equally  solici- 
tous as  to  the  cherry  orchards.  Then 
I took  it  on  myself  to  cross-examine  a 
tramping  family  in  black  (mother  al- 
leged, 1 have  no  doubt  by  herself  in 
person,  to  have  died  last  week),  and  to 
accompany  eighteen-pence,  which  pro- 
duced a great  effect,  with  moral  admo- 
nitions, which  produced  none  at  all. 
Finally,  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon 
before  I got  back  to  the  unprecedented 
chapter,  and  then  I determined  that  it 
was  out  of  the  season,  as  the  place  was, 
and  put  it  away. 

I went  at  night  to  the  benefit  of  Mrs. 
B.  Wedgington  at  the  theatre,  who  had 
placarded  the  town  with  the  admoni- 
tion, “Don’t  forget  it!”  I made 
the  house,  according  to  my  calculation, 
four  and  ninepence  to  begin  with,  and 
it  may  have  warmed  up,  in  the  course 
of  the  evening,  to  half  a sovereign. 
There  was  nothing  to  offend  any  one, 
— the  good  Mr.  Baines  of  Leeds  ex- 


392 


A POOR  MAN'S  TALE  OF  A PATENT. 


cepted,  Mrs.  B.  Wedgington  sang  to  a 
grand  piano.  Mr.  B.  Wedgington  did 
the  like,  and  also  took  off  his  coat, 
tucked  up  his  trousers,  and  danced  in 
clogs.  Master  B.  Wedgington,  aged 
ten  months,  was  nursed  by  a shivering 


young  person  in  the  boxes,  and  the  eye 
of  Mrs.  B.  Wedgington  wandered  that 
way  more  than  once.  Peace  be  with 
ail  the  Wedgingtons  from  A.  to  Z. 
May  they  find  themselves  in  the  Sea- 
son somewhere ! 


A POOR  MAN’S  TALE  OF  A PATENT. 


I am  not  used  to  writing  for  print. 
What  workingman  that  never  labors 
less  (some  Mondays,  and  Christmas 
time  and  Easter  time  excepted)  than 
twelve  or  fourteen  hour  a day  is?  But 
I have  been  asked  to  put  down,  plain, 
what  I have  got  to  say ; and  so  1 take 
pen  and  ink,  and  do  it  to  the  best  of 
my  power,  hoping  defects  will  find 
excuse. 

I was  born  nigh  London,  but  have 
worked  in  a shop  at  Birmingham  (what 
you  would  call  Manufactories,  we  call 
Shops)  almost  ever  since  I was  out  of 
my  xime.  I served  my  apprenticeship 
at  Deptford,  nigh  where  I was  born  ; 
and  I am  a smith  by  trade.  My  name 
is  John.  I have  been  called  “Old 
John”  ever  since  I was  nineteen  year 
of  age,  on  account  of  not  having  much 
hair.  I am  fifty-six  year  of  age  at  the 
present  time,  and  I don’t  find  myself 
with  more  hair,  nor  yet  with  less,  to 
signify,  than  at  nineteen  year  of  age 
aforesaid. 

I have  been  married  five-and-thirty 
year,  come  next  April.  I was  married 
on  All  Fools’  Day.  Let  them  laugh 
that  win.  I won  a good  wife  that  day, 
and  it  was  as  sensible  a day  to  me  as 
ever  I had. 

We  have  had  a matter  of  ten  chil- 
dren, six  whereof  are  living.  _ My  eld- 
est son  is  engineer  in  the  Italian  steam- 
packet  “ Mezzo  Giorno,  plying  between 
Marseilles  and  Naples,  and  calling  at 
Genoa,  Leghorn,  and  Civita  Vecchia.” 
He  was  a good  workman.  He  invent- 
ed a many  useful  little  things  that 


brought  him  in  — nothing.  I have 
two  sons  doing  well  at  Sydney,  New 
South  Wales,  — single,  when  last  heard 
from.  One  of  my  sons  (James)  went 
wild  and  for  a soldier,  where  he  was 
shot  in  India,  living  six  weeks  in 
hospital  with  a musket-ball  lodged  in 
his  shoulder-blade,  which  he  wrote 
with  his  own  hand.  He  was  the  best 
looking.  One  of  my  two  daughters 
(Mary)  is  comfortable  in  her  circum- 
stances, but  water  on  the  chest.  The 
other  (Charlotte),  her  husband  run 
away  from  her  in  the  basest  manner, 
and  she  and  her  three  children  live  with 
us.  The  youngest,  six  year  old,  has 
a turn  for  mechanics. 

I am  not  a Chartist,  and  I never  was. 
I don’t  mean  to  say  but  what  I see  a 
good  many  public  points  to  complain  of, 
still  I don’t  think  that ’s  the  way  to  set 
them  right.  If  I did  think  so,*  I should 
be  a Chartist.  But  I don’t  think  so, 
and  I am  not  a Chartist.  I read  the 
paper,  and  hear  discussion,  at  what  we 
call  “a  parlor”  in  Birmingham,  and  I 
know  many  good  men  and  workmen 
who  are  Chartists.  Note.  Not  physi- 
cal force. 

It  won’t  be  took  as  boastful  in  me,  if 
I make  the  remark  (for  I can’t  put  down 
what  I have  got  to  say  without  putting 
that  down  before  going  any  further), 
that  I have  always  been  of  an  ingenious 
turn.  I once  got  twenty  pound  by  a 
screw,  and  it ’s  in  use  now.  I have 
been  twenty  year,  off  and  on,  complet- 
ing an  invention  and  perfecting  it.  I 
perfected  of  it,  last  Christmas  eve  at 


A POOR  MAN'S  TALE  OF  A PATENT . 


ten  o’clock  at  night.  Me  and  my  wife 
stood  and  let  some  tears  fall  over  the 
Model,  when  it  was  done  and  I brought 
her  in  to  take  a look  at  it. 

A friend  of  mine,  by  the  name  of 
William  Butcher,  is  a Chartist.  Moder- 
ate. He  is  a good  speaker.  He  is  very 
animated.  I have  often  heard  him 
deliver  that  what  is,  at  every  turn,  in 
the  way  of  us  workingmen,  is,  that  too 
many  places  have  been  made,  in  the 
course  of  time,  to  provide  for  people 
that  never  ought  to  have  been  provided 
for;  and  that  we  have  to  obey  forms 
and  to  pay  fees  to  support  those  places 
when  we  shouldn’t  ought.  “True,” 
(delivers  William  Butcher,)  “ all  the 
public  has  to  do  this,  but  it  falls  heaviest 
on  the  workingman,  because  he  has 
least  to  spare ; and  likewise  because 
impediments  shouldn’t  be  put  in  his 
way,  when  he  wants  redress  of  wrong, 
or  furtherance  of  right.”  Note.  I have 
wrote  down  those  words  from  William 
Butcher’s  own  mouth.  W.  B.  deliver- 
ing them  fresh  for  the  aforesaid  pur- 
pose. 

Now,  to  my  Model  again.  There  it 
was,  perfected  of,  on  Christmas  eve, 
gone  nigh  a year,  at  ten  o’clock  at  night. 
All  the  money  I could  spare  I had  laid 
out  upon  the  Model ; and  when  times 
was  bad,  or  my  daughter  Charlotte’s 
children  sickly,  or  both,  it  had  stood 
still,  months  at  a spell.  I had  pulled  it 
to  pieces,  and  made  it  over  again  with 
improvements,  I don’t  know  how  often. 
There  it  stood,  at  last,  a perfected 
Model  as  aforesaid. 

William  Butcher  and  me  had  a long 
talk,  Christmas  day,  respecting  of  the 
Model.  William  is  very  sensible, 
but  sometimes  cranky.  William  said, 
“What  will  you  do  with  it,  John?”  I 
said,  “ Patent  it.”  William  said,  “ How 
Patent  it,  John?”  I said,  “ By  taking 
out  a Patent.”  William  then  delivered 
that  the  law  of  Patent  was  a cruel 
wrong.  William  said,  “John,  if  you 
make  your  invention  public,  before  you 
get  a Patent,  any  one  may  rob  you  of 
the  fruits  of  your  hard  work.  You  are 
put  in  a cleft  stick,  John.  Either  you 
must  drive  a bargain  very  much  against 
yourself,  by  getting  a party  to  come 
forward  beforehand  with  the  great  ex- 


3-53 

penses  of  the  Patent,  or  you  must  be 
put  about,  from  post  to  pillar,  among  so 
many  parties,  trying  to  make  a better 
bargain  for  yourself,  and  showing  your 
invention,  that  your  invention  will  be 
took  from  you  over  your  head.”  I said, 
“William  Butcher,  are  you  cranky? 
You  are  sometimes  cranky.”  William 
said,  “No,  John,  I tell  you  the  truth  ” ; 
which  he  then  delivered  more  at  length. 
I said  to  W.  B.  I would  Patent  the  in- 
vention myself. 

My  wife’s  brother,  George  Bury  of 
West  Bromwich  (his  wife  unfortunately 
took  to  drinking,  made  away  with  every- 
thing, and  seventeen  times  committed 
to  Birmingham  Jail  before  happy  re- 
lease in  every  point  of  view),  left  my 
wife,  his  sister,  when  he  died,  a legacy 
of  one  hundred  and  twenty-eight  pound 
ten,  Bank  of  England  Stocks. . Me  and 
my  wife  had  never  broke  into  that 
money  yet.  Note.  We  might  come  to 
be  old,  and  past  our  work.  We  now 
agreed  to  Patent  the  invention.  We 
said  we  would  make  a hole  in  it,  — I 
mean  in  the  aforesaid  money,  — and 
Patent  the  invention.  William  Butcher 
wrote  me  a letter  to  Thomas  Joy  in 
London.  T.  J.  is  a carpenter,  six  foot 
four  in  height,  and  plays  quoits  well. 
He  lives  in  Chelsea,  London,  by  the 
church.  I got  leave  from  the  shop  to 
be  took  on  again  when  I come  back. 
I am  a good  workman.  Not  a Teeto- 
taller ; but  never  drunk.  When  the 
Christmas  holidays  were  over,  I went 
up  to  London  by  the  Parliamentary 
Train,  and  hired  a lodging  for  a week 
with  Thomas  Joy.  He  is  manned.  He 
has  one  son  gone  to  sea. 

Thomas  Joy  delivered  (from  a book 
he  had)  that  the  first  step  to  be  took,  in 
Patenting  the  invention,  was  to  prepare 
a petition  unto  Queen  Victoria.  Wil- 
liam Butcher  had  delivered  similar, 
and  drawn  it  up.  Note.  William  is  a 
ready  writer.  A declaration  before  a 
Master  in  Chancery  was  to  be  added  to 
it.  That,  we  likewise  drew  up.  After  a 
deal  of  trouble  I found  out  a Master, 
in  Southampton  Buildings,  Chancery 
Lane,  nigh  Temple  Bar,  where  I made 
the  declaration,  and  paid  eighteen-pence. 
I was  told  to  take  the  declaration  and 
petition  to  the  Home  Office,  in  White- 


394 


A POOR  MAN'S  TALE  OF  A PATENT. 


hall,  where  I left  it  to  be  signed  by  the 
Home  Secretary  (after  I had  found  the 
office  out)  and  where  I paid  two  pound 
two  and  sixpence.  In  six  days  he 
signed  it,  and  I was  told  to  take  it  to 
the  Attorney-General’s  chambers,  and 
leave  it  there  for  a report.  I did  so, 
and  paid  four  pound  four.  Note.  No- 
body, all  through,  ever  thankful  for  their 
money,  but  all  uncivil. 

My  lodging  at  Thomas  Joy’s  was 
now  hired  for  another  week,  whereof 
five  days  were  gone.  The  Attorney- 
General  made  what  they  called  a Re- 
port-of-course  (my  invention  being,  as 
William  Butcher  had  delivered  before 
starting,  unopposed),  and  I was  sent 
back  with  it  to  the  Home  Office.  They 
made  a Copy  of  it,  which  was  called  a 
Warrant.  For  this  warrant  I paid 
seven  pound  thirteen  and  six.  It  was 
sent  to  the  Queen,  to  sign.  The  Queen 
sent  it  back,  signed.  The  Home  Sec- 
retary signed  it  again.  The  gentleman 
throwed  it  at  me  when  I called,  and 
said,  “Now  take  it  to  the  Patent  Qffice 
in  Lincoln’s  Inn.”  1 was  then  in  my 
third  week  at  Thomas  Joy’s,  living  very 
sparing,  on  account  of  fees.  I found 
myself  losing  heart. 

At  the  Patent  Office  in  Lincoln’s  Inn, 
they  made  “a  draft  of  the  Queen’s 
bill,”  of  my  invention,  and  a “docket 
of  the  bill.”  I paid  five  pound  ten 
and  six  for  this.  They  “ engrossed 
two  copies  of  the  bill ; one  for  the  Sig- 
net Office,  and  one  for  the  Privy-Seal 
Office.”  I paid  one  pound  seven  and 
six  for  this.  Stamp  duty,  over  and 
above,  three  pound.  The  Engrossing 
Clerk  of  the  same  office  engrossed  the 
Queen’s  bill  for  signature.  I paid  him 
one  pound  one.  Stamp  duty,  again, 
one  pound  ten.  I was  next  to  take  the 
Queen’s  bill  to  the  Attorney-General 
again,  and  get  it  signed  again.  I took 
it,  and  paid  five  pound  more.  I fetched 
it  away,  and  took  it  to  the  Home  Sec- 
retary again.  He  sent  it  to  the  Queen 
again.  She  signed  it  again.  I paid 
seven  pound  thirteen  and  six  more  for 
this.  I had  been  over  a month  at 
Thomas  Joy’s.  I was  quite  wore  out, 
patience  and  pocket. 

Thomas  Joy  delivered  all  this,  as  it 
went  on,  to  William  Butcher.  William 


Butcher  delivered  it  again  to  three  Bir- 
mingham Parlors,  from  which  it  got  to 
all  the  other  Parlors,  and  was  took,  as 
I have  been  told  since,  right  through 
all  the  shops  in  the  North  of  England. 
Note.  William  Butcher  delivered,  at 
his  Parlor,  in  a speech,  that  it  wras  a 
Patent  w-ay  of  making  Chartists. 

But  I hadn’t  nigh  done  yet.  The 
Queen’s  bill  was  to  be  took  to  the  Sig- 
net Office  in  Somerset  House,  Strand,  — 
where  the  stamp  shop  is.  The  Clerk 
of  the  Signet  made  “a  Signet  bill  for 
the  Lord  Keeper  of  the  Privy  Seal.” 
I paid  him  four  pound  seven.  The 
Clerk  of  the  Lord  Keeper  of  the  Privy 
Seal  made  “a  Privy-Seal  bill  for  the 
Lord  Chancellor.”  I paid  him  four 
ound  two.  The  Privy- Seal  bill  wras 
anded  over  to  the  Clerk  of  the  Pat- 
tents  w'ho  engrossed  the  aforesaid.  I 
paid  him  five  pound  seventeen  and 
eight ; at  the  same  time,  I paid  Stamp- 
duty  for  the  Patent,  in  one  lump,  thirty 
pound.  I next  paid  for  “boxes  for  the 
Patent,”  nine  and  sixpence.  Note. 
Thomas  Joy  would  have  made  the  same 
at  a profit  for  eighteen-pence.  I next 
paid  “ fees  to  the  Deputy,  the  Lord 
Chancellor’s  Purse-bearer,”  two  pound 
tw-o.  I next  paid  “ fees  to  the  Clerk  of 
the  Hanaper,”  seven  pound  thirteen. 
I next  paid  “fees  to  the  Deputy  Clerk 
of  the  Hanaper,”  ten  shillings.  I next 
paid,  to  the  Lord  Chancellor  again,  one 
pound  eleven  and  six.  Last  of  all.  I 
paid  “ fees  to  the  Deputy  Sealer,  and 
Deputy  Chaff- wax,”  ten  shillings  and 
sixpence.  I had  lodged  at  Thomas  Joy’s 
over  six  wTeeks,  and  the  unopposed  Pat- 
ent for  my  invention,  for  England  only, 
had  cost  me  ninety-six  pound  seven 
and  eightpence.  If  I had  taken  it  out 
for  the  United  Kingdom,  it  would  have 
cost  me  more  than  three  hundred 
pound. 

Now,  teaching  had  not  come  up  but 
very  limited  when  I wras  young.  So 
much  the  worse  for  me  you  ’ll  say.  I 
say  the  same.  * William  Butcher  is 
twenty  year  younger  than  me.  He 
knows  a hundred  year  more.  If  Wil- 
liam Butcher  had  wanted  to  Patent  an 
invention,  he  might  have  been  sharper 
than  myself  when  hustled  backwards 
and  forwards  among  all  those  offices, 


THE  NOBLE  SAVAGE. 


395 


though  I doubt  if  so  patient.  Note. 
William  being  sometimes  cranky,  and 
consider  porters,  messengers,  and  clerks. 

Thereby  I say  nothing  of  my  being 
tired  of  my  life,  while  I was  Patenting 
my  invention.  But  I put  this  : Is  it 

reasonable  to  make  a man  feel  as  if, 
in  inventing  an  ingenious  improvement 
meant  to  do  good,  he  had  done  some- 
thing wrong?  How  else  can  a man 
feel,  when  he  is  met  by  such  difficulties 
at  every  turn  ? All  inventors  taking 
out  a Patent  must  feel  so.  And  look 
at  the  expense.  How  hard  on  me,  and 
how  hard  on  the  country,  if  there ’s  any 
merit  in  me  (and  my  invention  is  took 
up  now,  I am  thankful  to  say,  and  doing 
well),  to  put  me  to  all  that  expense 
before  I can  move  a finger!  Make 
the  addition  yourself,  and  it  ’ll  come 
to  ninety-six  pound  seven  and  eight- 
pence.  No  more,  and  no  less. 

What  can  I say  against  William 
Butcher,  about  places?  Look  at  the 
Home  Secretary,  the  Attorney-General, 
the  Patent  Office,  the  Engrossing  Clerk, 
the  Lord  Chancellor,  the  Privy  Seal, 
the  Clerk  of  the  Patents,  the  Lord 
Chancellor’s  Purse-bearer,  the  Clerk 
of  the  Hanaper,  the  Deputy  Clerk  of 
the  Hanaper,  the  Deputy  Sealer,  and 


the  Deputy  Chaff- wax.  No  man  in 

England  could  get  a Patent  for  an  In- 
dia-rubber band,  or  an  iron  hoop,  with- 
out feeing  all  of  them.  Some  of  them, 
over  and  over  again.  I went  through 
thirty-five  stages.  I began  with  the 
Queen  upon  the  Throne.  I ended  with 
the  Deputy  Chaff- wax.  Note.  1 should 
like  to  see  the  Deputy  Chaff-wax.  Is 
it  a man,  or  what  is  it? 

What  I had  to  tell,  I have  told.  I 
have  wrote  it  down.  I hope  it ’s  plain. 
Not  so  much  in  the  handwriting  (though 
nothing  to  boast  of  there),  as  in  the  sense 
of  it.  I will  now  conclude  with  Thomas 
Joy.  Thomas  said  to  me,  when  we 
parted,  “ John,  if  the  laws  of  this 
country  were  as  honest  as  they  ought 
to  be,  you  would  have  come  to  Lon- 
don, — registered  an  exact  description 
and  drawing  of  your  invention,  — paid 
half  a crown  or  so  for  doing  of  it,  — 
and  therein  and  thereby  have  got  your 
Patent.” 

My  opinion  is  the  same  as  Thomas 
Joy.  Further.  In  William  Butcher’s 
delivering  “ that  the  whole  gang  of 
Hanapers  and  Chaff-waxes  must  be 
done  away  with,  and  that  England  has 
been  chaffed  and  waxed  sufficient,”  I 
agree. 


THE  NOBLE  SAVAGE. 


To  come  to  the  point  at  once,  I beg 
to  say  that  I have  not  the  least  belief 
in  the  Noble  Savage.  I consider  him 
a prodigious  nuisance  and  an  enormous 
superstition.  His  calling  rum  fire  wa- 
ter, and  me  a pale  face,  wholly  fail  to 
reconcile  me  to  him.  I don’t  care  what 
he  calls  me.  I call  him  a savage,  and 
I call  a savage  a something  highly  de- 
sirable to  be  civilized  off  the  face  of  the 
earth.  I think  a mere  gent  (which  I 
take  to  be  the  lowest  form  of  civiliza- 
tion) better  than  a howling,  whistling 
clucking,  stamping,  jumping,  tearing 


savage.  It  is  all  one  to  me,  whether 
he  sticks  a fish-bone  through  his  vis- 
age, or  bits  of  trees  through  the  lobes 
of  his  ears,  or  birds’  feathers  in  his 
head  ; whether  he  flattens  his  hair  be- 
tween two  boards,  or  spreads  his  nose 
over  the  breadth  of  his  face,  or  drags 
his  lower  lip  down  by  great  weights,  or 
blackens  his  teeth,  or  knocks  them  out, 
or  paints  one  cheek  red  and  the  other 
blue,  or  tattoos  himself,  or  oils  himself, 
or  rubs  his  body  with  fat,  or  crimps  it 
with  knives.  Yielding  to  whichsoever 
of  these  agreeable  eccentricities,  he  is  a 


39$ 


THE  NOBLE  SAVAGE. 


savage,  — cruel,  false,  thievish,  murder- 
ous ; addicted  more  or  less  to  grease, 
entrails,  and  beastly  customs  ; a wild 
animal  with  the  questionable  gift  of 
boasting ; a conceited,  tiresome,  blood- 
thirsty, monotonous  humbug. 

Yet  it  is  extraordinary  to  observe  how 
some  people  will  talk  about  him,  as  they 
talk  about  the  good  old  times  ; how 
they  will  regret  his  disappearance,  in  the 
course  of  this  world’s  development,  from 
such  and  such  lands  where  his  absence 
is  a blessed  relief,  and  an  indispensable 
preparation  for  the  sowing  of  the  very 
first  seeds  of  any  influence  that  can  exalt 
humanity  ; how,  even  with  the  evidence 
of  himself  before  them,  they  will  either 
be  determined  to  believe,  or  will  suffer 
themselves  to  be  persuaded  into  believ- 
ing, that  he  is  something  which  their 
five  senses  tell  them  he  is  not. 

There  was  Mr.  Catlin,  some  few 
years  ago,  with  his  Ojibbeway  Indians. 
Mr.  Catlin  was  an  energetic,  earnest 
man,  who  had  lived  among  more  tribes 
of  Indians  than  I need  reckon  up  here, 
and  who  had  written  a picturesque  and 
glowing  book  about  them.  With  his 
party  of  Indians  squatting  and  spitting 
on  the  table  before  him,  or  dancing 
their  miserable  jigs  after  their  own 
dreary  manner,  he  called,  in  all  good 
faith,  upon  his  civilized  audience  to 
take  notice  of  their  symmetry  and 
grace,  their  perfect  limbs,  and  the  ex- 
quisite expression  of  their  pantomime  ; 
and  his  civilized  audience,  in  all  good 
faith,  complied  and  admired.  Where- 
as, as  mere  animals,  they  were  wretch- 
ed creatures,  very  low  in  the  scale  and 
very  poorly  formed ; and  as  men  and 
women  possessing  any  powrer  of  truth- 
ful dramatic  expression  by  means  of 
action,  they  were  no  better  than  the 
chorus  at  an  Italian  Opera  in  England, 
and  would  have  been  worse  if  such  a 
thing  were  possible. 

Mine  are  no  new  views  of  the  noble 
savage.  The  greatest  writers  on  natu- 
ral history  found  him  out  long  ago. 
Buffon  knew  what  he  was,  and  showed 
why  he  is  the  sulky  tyrant  that  he  is  to 
his  women,  and  how  it  happens  (Heav- 
en be  praised  !)  that  his  race  is  spare  in 
numbers.  For  evidence  of  the  quality 
of  his  moral  nature,  pass  himself  for  a 


moment  and  refer  to  his  “faithful  dog.” 
Has  he  ever  improved  a dog,  or  at- 
tached a dog,  since  his  nobility  first  ran 
wild  in  woods,  and  was  brought  down 
(at  a very  long  shot)  by  Pope?  Or 
does  the  animal  that  is  the  friend  of 
man  always  degenerate  in  his  low  so- 
ciety? 

It  is  not  the  miserable  nature  of  the 
noble  savage  that  is  the  new  thing ; it 
is  the  whimpering  over  him  with  maud- 
lin admiration,  and  the  affecting  to  re- 
gret him,  and  the  drawing  of  any  com- 
parison of  advantage  between  the  blem- 
ishes of  civilization  and  the  tenor  of  his 
swinish  life.  There  may  have  been  a 
change  now  and  then  in  those  dis- 
eased absurdities,  but  there  is  none  in 
him. 

Think  of  the  Bushmen.  Think  of 
the  two  men  and  the  two  women  who 
have  been  exhibited  about  England  for 
some  years.  Are  the  majority  of  per- 
sons— who  remember  the  horrid  little 
leader  of  that  party  in  his  festering  bun- 
dle of  hides,  with  his  filth  and  his  an- 
tipathy to  water,  and  his  straddled  legs, 
and  his  odious  eyes  shaded  by  his  brutal 
hand,  and  his  cry  of  “ Qu-u-u-u-aaa  ! ’* 
(Bosjesman  for  something  desperately 
insulting  I have  no  doubt)  — conscious 
of  an  affectionate  yearning  towards  that 
noble  savage,  or  is  it  idiosyncratic  in 
me  to  abhor,  detest,  abominate,  and 
abjure  him?  I have  no  reserve  on  this 
subject,  and  will  frankly  state  that,  set- 
ting aside  that  stage  of  the  entertain- 
ment when  he  counterfeited  the  death 
of  some  creature  he  had  shot,  by  laying 
his  head  on  his  hand  and  shaking  his 
left  leg,  — at  which  time  I think  it 
would  have  been  justifiable  homicide  to 
slay  him,  — I have  never  seen  that 
group  sleeping,  smoking,  and  expecto- 
rating round  their  brazier,  but  I have 
sincerely  desired  that  something  might 
happen  to  the  charcoal  smouldering 
therein,  which  would  cause  the  imme- 
diate suffocation  of  the  whole  of  the 
noble  strangers. 

There  is  at  present  a party  of  Zulu 
Kaffirs  exhibiting  at  the  St.  George’s 
Gallery,  Hyde  Park  Corner,  London. 
These  noble  savages  are  represented  in 
a most  agre'eable  manner ; they  are 
seen  in  an  elegant  theatre,  fitted  with 


THE  NOBLE  SAVAGE . 


397 


appropriate  scenery  of  great  beauty,  and 
they  are  described  in  a very  sensible 
and  unpretending  lecture,  delivered 
with  a modesty  which  is  quite  a pattern 
to  all  similar  exponents.  Though  ex- 
tremely ugly,  they  are  much  better 
shaped  than  such  of  their  predecessors 
as  I have  referred  to ; and  they  are 
rather  picturesque  to  the  eye,  though  far 
from  odoriferous  to  the  nose.  What  a 
visitor  left  to  his  own  interpretings  and 
imaginings  might  suppose  these  no- 
blemen to  be  about,  when  they  give 
vent  to  that  pantomimic  expression 
which  is  quite  settled  to  be  the  natural 
gift  of  the  noble  savage,  I cannot  pos- 
sibly conceive ; for  it  is  so  much  too 
luminous  for  my  personal  civilization, 
that  it  conveys  no  idea  to  my  mind  be- 
yond a general  stamping,  ramping,  and 
raving,  remarkable  (as  everything  in 
savage  life  is)  for  its  dire  uniformity. 
But  let  us  — with  the  interpreter’s  as- 
sistance, of  which  1 for  one  stand  so 
much  in  need  — see  what  the  noble 
savage  does  in  Zulu  Kaffirland. 

The  noble  savage  sets  a king  to  reign 
over  him,  to  whom  he  submits  his  life 
and  limbs  without  a murmur  or  ques- 
tion, and  whose  whole  life  is  passed 
chin  deep  in  a lake  of  blood  ; but  who, 
after  killing  incessantly,  is  in  his  turn 
killed  by  his  relations  and  friends,  the 
moment  a gray  hair  appears  on  his 
head.  All  the  noble  savage’s  wars 
with  his  fellow-savages  (and  he  takes 
no  pleasure  in  anything  else)  are  wars 
of  extermination,  — which  is  the  best 
thing  I know  of  him,  and  the  most 
comfortable  to  my  mind  when  I look  at 
him.  He  has  no  moral  feelings  of  any 
kind,  sort,  or  description  ; and  his  “ mis- 
sion ” may  be  summed  up  as  simply 
diabolical. 

The  ceremonies  with  which  he  faintly 
diversifies  his  life  are,  of  course,  of  a 
kindred  nature.  If  he  wants  a wife  he 
appears  before  the  kennel  of  the  gentle- 
man whom  he  has  selected  for  his  fa- 
ther-in-law, attended  by  a party  of  male 
friends  of  a very  strong  flavor,  who 
screech  and  whistle  and  stamp  an  offer 
of  so  many  cows  for  the  young  lady’s 
hand.  The  chosen  father-in-law  — also 
supported  by  a high-flavored  party  of 
male  friends  — screeches,  whistles,  and 


yells  (being  seated  on  the  ground,  he 
can’t  stamp)  that  there  never  was  such 
a daughter  in  the  market  as  his  daugh- 
ter, and  that  he  must  have  six  more 
cows.  The  son-in-law  and  his  select 
circle  of  backers  screech,  whistle,  stamp, 
and  yell  in  reply,  that  they  will  give 
three  more  cows.  The  father-in-law 
(an  old  deluder,  overpaid  at  the  begin- 
ning) accepts  four,  and  rises  to  bind 
the  bargain.  The  whole  party,  the 
young  lady  included,  then  falling  into 
epileptic  convulsions,  and  screeching, 
whistling,  stamping,  and  yelling  togeth- 
er, — and  nobodv  taking  any  notice  of 
the  young  lady  (whose  charms  are  not 
to  be  thought  of  without  a shudder), 

• — the  noble  savage  is  considered  mar- 
ried, and  his  friends  make  demonia- 
cal leaps  at  him  by  way  of  congratula- 
tion. 

When  the  noble  savage  finds  himself 
a little  unwell,  and  mentions  the  cir- 
cumstance to  his  friends,  it  is  imme- 
diately perceived  that  he  is  under  the 
influence  of  witchcraft.  A learned  per- 
sonage, called  an  Imyanger  or  Witch 
Doctor,  is  immediately  sent  for  to  Noo- 
ker  the  Umtargartie,  or  smell  out  the 
witch.  The  male  inhabitants  of  the 
kraal  being  seated  on  the  ground,  the 
learned  doctor,  got  up  like  a grizzly 
bear,  appears,  and  administers  a dance 
of  a most  terrific  nature,  during  the  ex- 
hibition of  which  remedy  he  incessantly 
gnashes  his  teeth,  and  howls  : “ I am 
the  original  physician  to  Nooker  the 
Umtargartie.  Yowyowyow!  No  con- 
nection with  any  other  establishment. 
Till  till  till  ! All  other  Umtargarties 
are  feigned  Umtargarties,  Boroo  Boroo  ! 
but  I perceive  here  a genuine  and  real 
Umtargartie,  Hoosh  Hoosh  Hoosh  ! in 
whose  blood  I,  the  original  Imyanger 
and  Nookerer,  Blizzerum  Boo!  will 
wash  these  bear’s  claws  of  mine.  O 
yow  vow  yowl”.  All  this  time  the 
learned  physician  is  looking  out  among 
the  attentive  faces  for  some  unfortunate 
man  who  owes  him  a cow,  or  who  has 
given  him  any  small  offence,  or  against 
whom,  without  offence,  he  has  conceived 
a spite.  Him  he  never  fails  to  Nooker 
as  the  Umtargartie,  and  he  is  instantly 
killed.  In  the  absence  of  such  an  indi- 
vidual, the  usual  practice  is  to  Nooker 


39^ 


THE  NOBLE  SAVAGE. 


the  quietest  and  most  gentlemanly  per- 
son in  company.  But  the  Nookering  is 
invariably  followed  on  the  spot  by  the 
butchering. 

Some  of  the  noble  savages  in  whom 
Mr.  Catlin  was  so  strongly  interested, 
and  the  diminution  of  whose  numbers, 
by  rum  and  small-pox,  greatly  affected 
him,  had  a custom  not  unlike  this, 
though  much  more  appalling  and  dis- 
gusting in  its  odious  details. 

The  women  being  at  work  in  the 
fields,  hoeing  the  Indian  corn,  and  the 
noble  savage  being  asleep  in  the  shade, 
the  chief  has  sometimes  thotcondescen- 
sion  to  come  forth,  and  lighten  the  labor 
by  looking  at  it.  On  these  occasions, 
he  seats  himself  in  his  own  savage  chair, 
and  is  attended  by  his  shield-bearer, 
who  holds  over  his  head  a shield  of 
cowhide  — in  shape  like  an  immense 
mussel-shell  — fearfully  and  wonderful- 
ly after  the  manner  of  a theatrical  su- 
pernumerary. But  lest  the  great  man 
should  forget  his  greatness  in  the  con- 
templation of  the  humble  works  of  agri- 
culture, there  suddenly  rushes  in  a 
poet,  retained  for  the  purpose,  called  a 
Praiser.  This  literary  gentleman  wears 
a leopard’s  head  over  his  own,  and  a 
dress  of  tiger’s  tails ; he  has  the  ap- 
pearance of  having  come  express  on  his 
hind  legs  from  the  Zoological  Gardens  ; 
and  he  incontinently  strikes  up  the 
chiefs  praises,  plunging  and  tearing 
all  the  while.  There  is  a frantic  wick- 
edness in  this  brute’s  manner  of  worry- 
ing the  air,  and  gnashing  out,  “ O what 
a delightful  chief  he  is  ! O what  a de- 
licious quantity  of  blood  he  sheds  ! O 
how  majestically  he  laps  it  up  ! O how 
charmingly  cruel  he  is  ! O how  he 
tears  the  flesh  of  his  enemies  and 
crunches  the  bones  ! O how  like  the 
tiger  and  the  leopard  and  the  wolf  and 
the  bear  he  is  ! O,  row  row  row  row, 
how  fond  I am  of  him  ! ” — which  might 
tempt  the  Society  of  Friends  to  charge 
at  a hand-gallop  into  the  Swartz- Kop 
location  and  exterminate  the  whole 
kraal. 

When  war  is  afoot  among  the  noble 
savages,  — which  is  always,  — the  chief 
holds  a council  to  ascertain  whether 
it  is  the  opinion  of  his  brothers  and 
friends  in  general  that  the  enemy  shall 


be  exterminated.  On  this  occasion,  after 
the  performance  of  an  Umsebeuza,  or 
war  song,  — which  is  exactly  like  all  the 
other  songs,  — the  chief  makes  a speech 
to  his  brothers  and  friends,  arranged  in 
single  file.  No  particular  order  is  ob- 
served during  the  delivery  of  this  ad- 
dress, but  every  gentleman  who  finds 
himself  excited  by  the  subject,  instead 
of  crying,  “ Hear,  hear  ! ” as  is  the  cus- 
tom with  us,  darts  from  the  rank  and 
tramples  out  the  life,  or  crushes  the 
skull,  or  mashes  the  face,  or  scoops  out 
the  eyes,  or  breaks  the  limbs,  or  per- 
forms a whirlwind  of  atrocities  on  the 
body,  of  an  imaginary  enemy.  Several 
gentlemen  becoming  thus  excited  at 
once,  and  pounding  away  without  the 
least  regard  to  the  orator,  that  illustri- 
ous person  is  rather  in  the  position  of 
an  orator  in  an  Irish  House  of  Com- 
mons. But  several  of  these  scenes  of 
savage  life  bear  a strong  generic  resem- 
blance to  an  Irish  election,  and  I think 
would  be  extremely  well  received  and 
understood  at  Cork. 

In  all  these  ceremonies  the  noble 
savage  holds  forth  to  the  utmost  pos- 
sible extent  about  himself ; from  which 
(to  turn  him  to  some  civilized  account) 
we  may  learn,  I think,  that  as  egotism 
is  one  of  the  most  offensive  and  con- 
temptible littlenesses  a civilized  man 
can  exhibit,  so  it  is  really  incompatible 
with  the  interchange  of  ideas ; inas- 
much as  if  we  all  talked  about  ourselves 
we  should  soon  have  no  listeners,  and 
must  be  all  yelling  and  screeching  at 
once  on  our  own  separate  accounts : 
making  society  hideous.  It  is  my  opin- 
ion that  if  we  retained  in  us  anything 
of  the  noble  savage,  we  could  not  get 
rid^of  it  too  soon.  But  the  fact  is 
clearly  otherwise.  Upon  the  wife  and 
dowry  question,  substituting  coin  for 
cows,  we  have  assuredly  nothing  of  the 
Zulu  Kaffir  left.  The  endurance  of 
despotism  is  one  great  distinguishing 
mark  of  a savage  always.  The  im- 
proving world  has  quite  got  the  better 
of  that  too.  In  like  manner,  Paris  is 
a civilized  city,  and  the  Theatre  Fran- 
$ais  a highly  civilized  theatre  ; and  we 
shall  never  hear,  and  never  have  heard 
in  these  later  days  (of  course)  of  the 
Praiser  there.  No,  no,  civilized  poets 


A FLIGHT. 


399 


have  better  work  to  do.  As  to  Nook- 
ering  Umtargarties,  there  are  no  pre- 
tended Umtargarties  in  Europe,  and 
no  European  powers  to  Nooker  them ; 
that  would  be  mere  spydom,  suborna- 
tion, small  malice,  superstition,  and 
false  pretence.  And  as  to  private  Um- 
targarties, are  we  not  in  the  year  eigh- 
teen hundred  and  fifty-three,  with  spir- 
its rapping  at  our  doors? 

To  conclude  as  I began.  My  position 
is,  that  if  we  have  anything  to  learn  from 


the  Noble  Savage,  it  is  what  to  avoid. 
His  virtues  are  a fable ; his  happiness 
is  a delusion ; his  nobility,  nonsense. 
We  have  no  greater  justification  for 
being  cruel  to  the  miserable  object 
than  for  being  cruel  to  a William 
Shakespeare  or  an  Isaac  Newton  ; 
but  he  passes  away  before  an  immeas- 
urably better  and  higher  power  than 
ever  ran  wild  in  any  earthly  woods, 
and  the  world  will  be  all  the  better 
when  his  place  knows  him  no  more. 


A FLI 


When  Don  Diego  de,  — I forget  his^ 
name,  — the  inventor  of  the  last  new 
Flying  Machines,  price  so  many  francs 
for  ladies,  so  many  more  for  gentlemen, 
— when  Don  Diego,  by  permission  of 
Deputy  Chaff-Wax  and  his  noble  band, 
shall  have  taken  out  a Patent  for  the 
Queen’s  dominions,  and  shall  have 
opened  a commodious  Warehouse  in  an 
airy  situation  ; and  when  all  persons  of 
any  gentility  will  keep  at  least  a pair  of 
wings,  and  be  seen  skimming  about  in 
every  direction  ; I shall  take  a flight  to 
Paris  (as  I soar  round  the  world)  in  a 
cheap  and  independent  manner.  At 
present,  my  reliance  is  on  the  South- 
eastern Railway  Company,  in  whose 
Express  Train  here  I sit,  at  eight  of  the 
clock  on  a very  hot  morning,  under  the 
very  hot  roof  o£  the  Terminus  at  Lon- 
don Bridge,  in  danger  of  being  “ forced  ” 
like  a cucumber  or  a melon  or  a pine- 
apple — And  talking  of  pine-apples,  I 
suppose  there  never  were  so  many  pine- 
apples in  a Train  as  there  appear  to  be 
in  this  Train. 

Whew  ! the  hot-house  air  is  faint 
with  pine-apples.  Every  French  citi- 
zen or  citizeness  is  carrying  pine-apples 
home.  The  compact  little  Enchantress 
in  the  corner  of  my  carriage  (French 
actress,  to  whom  I yielded  up  my  heart 
under  the  auspices  of  that  brave  child, 


GHT. 


“ Meat-chell,”  at  the  St.  James’s 
Theatre  the  night  before  last)  has  a 
pine-apple  in  her  lap.  Compact  En- 
chantress’s friend,  confidante,  mother, 
mystery,  Heaven  knows  what,  has  two 
pine-apples  in  her  lap,  and  a bundle  of 
them  under  the  seat.  Tobacco-smoky 
Frenchman  in  Algerine  wrapper,  with 
peaked  hood  behind,  who  might  be 
Abd-el-Kader  dyed  rifle-green,  and 
who  seems  to  be  dressed  entirely  in 
dirt  and  braid,  carries  pine-apples  in 
a covered  basket.  Tall,  grave,  melan- 
choly Frenchman,  with  black  Vandyke 
beard,  and  hair  close-cropped,  with  ex- 
pansive chest  to  waistcoat,  and  com- 
pressive waist  to  coat : saturnine  as  to 
his  pantaloons,  calm  as  to  his  feminine 
boots,  precious  as  to  his  jewelry,  smooth 
and  white  as  to  his  linen  : dark-eyed, 
high-foreheaded,  hawk-nosed,  — got  up, 
one  thinks,  like  Lucifer  or  Mephis- 
topheles,  or  Zamiel,  transformed  into  a 
highly  genteel  Parisian,  — has  the  green 
end  of  a pine-apple  sticking  out  of  his 
neat  valise. 

Whew ! If  I were  to  be  kept  here 
long,  under  this  forcing-frame,  I wondef 
what  would  become  of  me,  — whether  I 
should  be  forced  into  a giant,  or  should 
sprout  or  blow  into  some  other  phenome- 
non ! Compact  Enchantress  is  not  ruf- 
fled by  the  heat,  — she  is  always  com- 


400 


A FLIGHT. 


posed,  always  compact.  O look  at  her 
little  ribbons,  frills,  and  edges,  at  her 
shawl,  at  her  gloves,  at  her  hair,  at  her 
bracelets,  at  her  bonnet,  at  everything 
about  her  ! How  is  it  accomplished  ? 
What  does  she  do  to  be  so  neat?  How 
is  it  that  every  trifle  she  wears  belongs 
to  her,  and  cannot  choose  but  be  a part  of 
her?  And  even  Mystery,  look  at  her  l 
A model.  Mystery  is  not  young,  not 
pretty,  though  still  of  an  average  candle- 
light passability;  but  she  does  such 
miracles  in  her  own  behalf,  that,  one  of 
these  days,  when  she  dies,  they’ll  be 
amazed  to  find  an  old  woman  in  her 
bed,  distantly  like  her.  She  was  an 
actress  once,  I should  n’t  wonder,  and 
had  a Mystery  attendant  on  herself. 
Perhaps  Compact  Enchantress  will 
live  to  be  a Mystery,  and  to  wait  with  a 
shawl  at  the  side-scenes,  and  to  sit  op- 
posite to  Mademoiselle  in  railway  car- 
riages, and  smile  and  talk  subserviently, 
as  Mystery  does  now.  That ’shard  to 
believe  ! 

Two  Englishmen,  and  now  our  car- 
riage is  full.  First  Englishman,  in  the 
moneyed  interest  — flushed,  highly  re- 
spectable — Stock  Exchange,  perhaps 
— City,  certainly.  Faculties  of  second 
Englishman  entirely  absorbed  in  hurry. 
Plunges  into  the  carriage,  blind.  Calls 
out  of  window  concerning  his  luggage, 
deaf.  Suffocates  himself  under  pillows 
of  great-coats,  for  no  reason,  and  in  a 
demented  manner.  Will  receive  no 
assurance  from  any  porter  whatsoever. 
Is  stout  and  hot,  and  w'ipes  his  head, 
and  makes  himself  hotter  by  breathing 
so  hard.  Is  totally  incredulous  respect- 
ing assurance  of  Collected  Guard  that 
“ there’s  no  hurry.”  No  hurry  ! And 
a flight  to  Paris  in  eleven  hours  ! 

It  is  all  one  to  me  in  this  drowsy 
corner,  hurry  or  no  hurry.  Until  Don 
Diego  shall  send  home  my  wings,  my 
flight  is  with  the  Southeastern  Com- 
pany. I can  fly  with  the  Southeast- 
ern more  lazily,  at  all  events,  than  in 
the  upper  air.  I have  but  to  sit  here 
thinking  as  idly  as  I please,  and  be 
whisked  away.  I am  not  accountable 
to  anybody  for  the  idleness  of  my 
thoughts  in  such  an  idle  summer  flight ; 
my  flight  is  provided  for  by  the  South- 
eastern, and  is  no  business  of  mine. 


The  bell  ! With  all  my  heart.  It 
does  not  require  me  to  do  so  much  as 
even  to  flap  my  wings.  Something 
snorts  for  me,  something  shrieks  for  me, 
something  proclaims  to  everything  else 
that  it  had  better  keep  out  of  my  way, 
— and  away  I go. 

Ah  ! The  fresh  air  is  pleasant  after 
the  forcing-frame,  though  it  does  blow 
over  these  interminable  streets,  and 
scatter  the  smoke  of  this  vast  wilder- 
ness of  chimneys.  Here  we  are  — no,  I 
mean  there  we  were,  for  it  has  darted 
far  into  the  rear  — in  Bermondsey,  where 
the  tanners  live.  Flash  ! The  distant 
shipping  in  the  Thames  is  gone.  Whir  ! 
The  little  streets  of  new  brick  and  red 
tile,  w ith  here  and  there  a flagstaff  grow- 
ing like  a tall  weed  out  of  the  scarlet 
beans,  and,  everywhere,  plenty  of  open 
sew  er  and  ditch  for  the  promotion  of  the 
public  health,  have  been  fired  off  in  a 
volley.  Whizz  ! Dustheaps,  market- 
''gardens,  and  w-aste  grounds.  Rattle  ! 
New  Cross  Station.  Shock ! There 
we  were  at  Croydon.  Bur-r-r-r  ! The 
tunnel. 

I wonder  why  it  is  that  when  I shut 
my  eyes  in  a tunnel  I begin  to  feel  as  if 
I were  going  at  an  Express  pace  the 
other  way.  I am  clearly  going  back  to 
London  now.  Compact  Enchantress 
must  have  forgotten  something  and  re- 
versed the  engine.  No  ! After  long 
darkness,  pale  fitful  streaks  of  light  ap- 
pear. I am  still  flying  on  for  Folke- 
stone. The  streaks  grow'  stronger,  — 
become  continuous,  — become  the  ghost 
of  day,  — become  the  living  day,  — be- 
came I mean,  — the  tunnel  is  miles  and 
miles  aw'ay,  and  here  I fly  through  sun- 
light, all  among  the  harvest  and  the 
Kentish  hops. 

There  is  a dreamy  pleasure  in  this  fly- 
ing. I wonder  where  it  w'as,  and  when 
it  was,  that  we  exploded,  blew  into 
space  somehow',  a Parliamentary  Train, 
with  a crowd  of  heads  and  faces  looking 
at  us  out  of  cages,  and  some  hats  wav- 
ing. Moneyed  Interest  says  it  was  at 
Reigate  Station.  Expounds  to  Mystery 
how  Reigate  Station  is  so  many  miles 
from  London,  which  Mystery  again  de- 
velops to  Compact  Enchantress.  There 
might  be  neither  a Reigate  nor  a Lon- 
don for  me,  as  I fly  away  among  the 


A FLIGHT . 


401 


Kentish  hops  and  harvest.  What  do  / 
care ! 

Bang  ! We  have  let  another  Station 
off,  and  fly  away  regardless.  Every- 
thing is  flying.  The  hop-gardens  turn 
gracefully  towards  me,  presenting  regu- 
lar avenues  of  hops  in  rapid  flight,  then 
whirl  away.  So  do  the  pools  and  rushes, 
haystacks,  sheep,  clover  in  full  bloom 
delicious  to  the  sight  and  smell,  corn- 
sheaves,  cherry  - orchards,  apple  - or- 
chards, reapers,  gleaners,  hedges,  gates, 
fields  that  taper  off  into  little  angular 
corners,  cottages,  gardens,  now  and  then 
a church.  Bang,  bang ! A double- 
barrelled  Station  ! Now  a wood,  now  a 
bridge,  now  a landscape,  now  a cutting, 
now  a — Bang  ! a single-barrelled  Sta- 
tion— there  was  a cricket-match  some- 
where with  two  white  tents,  and  then 
four  flying  cows,  then  turnips, — now  the 
wires  of  the  electric  telegraph  are  all 
alive,  and  spin,  and  blur  their  edges, 
and  go  up  and  down,  and  make  the  in- 
tervals between  each  other  most  irregu- 
lar, contracting  and  expanding  in  the 
strangest  manner.  Now  we  slacken. 
With  a screwing,  and  a grinding,  and  a 
smell  of  water  thrown  on  ashes,  now  we 
stop  ! 

Demented  Traveller,  who  has  been 
for  two  or  three  minutes  watchful, 
clutches  his  great-coats,  plunges  at  the 
door,  rattles  it,  cries,  “ Hi  ! ” eager  to 
embark  on  board  of  impossible  packets, 
far  inland.  Collected  Guard  appears. 
“ Are  you  for  Tunbridge,  sir?  ” “ Tun- 
bridge? No.  Paris.”  “ Plenty  of  time, 
sir.  No  hurry.  Five  minutes  here,  sir, 
for  refreshment.”  I am  so  blest  (an- 
ticipating Zamiel,  by  half  a second)  as 
to  procure  a glass  of  water  for  Compact 
Enchantress. 

Who  would  suppose  we  had  been  fly- 
ing at  such  a rate,  and  shall  take  wing 
again  directly?  Refreshment-room  full, 
platform  full,  porter  with  watering-pot 
deliberately  cooling  a hot  wheel,  anoth- 
er porter  with  equal  deliberation  help- 
ing the  rest  of  the  wheels  bountifully  to 
ice-cream.  Moneyed  Interest  and  I re- 
entering the  carriage  first,  and  being 
there  alone,  he  intimates  to  me  that  the 
French  are  “no  go  ” as  a Nation.  I 
ask  why?  He  says,  that  Reign  of  Ter- 
ror of  theirs  was  quite  enough.  I ven- 
26 


ture  to  inquire  whetjier  he  remembers 
anything  that  preceded  said  Reign  of 
Terror  ? He  says  not  particularly.  “ Be- 
cause,” I remark,  “ the  harvest  that  is 
reaped  has  sometimes  been  sown.” 
Moneyed  Interest  repeats,  as  quite 
enough  for  him,  that  the  French  are 
revolutionary,  — and  always  at  it.” 

Bell.  Compact  Enchantress,  helped 
in  by  Zamiel,  (whom  the  stars  con- 
found ! ) gives  us  her  charming  little 
side-box  look,  and  smites  me  to  the 
core.  Mystery  eating  sponge-cake. 
Pine-apple  atmosphere  faintly  tinged 
with  suspicions  of  sherry.  Demented 
Traveller  flits  past  the  carriage,  looking 
for  it.  Is  blind  with  agitation,  and 
can’t  see  it.  Seems  singled  out  by 
Destiny  to  be  the  only  unhappy  creature 
in  the  flight  who  has  any  cause  to  hur- 
ry himself.  Is  nearly  left  behind.  Is 
seized  by  Collected  Guard  after  the 
Train  is  in  motion,  and  bundled  in. 
Still  has  lingering  suspicions  that  there 
must  be  a boat  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
will  look  wildly  out  of  a window  for  it. 

Flight  resumed.  Corn-sheaves,  hop- 
gardens, reapers,  gleaners, . apple-or- 
chards, cherry-orchards,  Stations  single 
and  doubled  barrelled,  Ashford.  Com- 
pact Enchantress  (constantly  talking  to 
Mystery,  in  an  exquisite  manner)  gives 
a little  scream  ; a sound  that  seems  to 
come  from  high  up  in  her  precious  little 
head,  from  behind  her  bright  little  eye- 
brows. “ Great  Heaven,  my  pine-ap- 
ple ! My  Angel  ! It  is  lost  ! ” Mys- 
tery is  desolated.  _ A search  made.  It 
is  not  lost.  Zamiel  finds  it.  I curse 
him  (flying)  in  the  Persian  manner.  May 
his  face  be  turned  upside  down,  and  jack- 
asses sit  upon  his  uncle’s  grave  ! 

Now  fresher  air,  now  glimpses  of  un- 
enclosed Down-land,  with  flapping  crows 
flying  over  it  whom  we  soon  outflv,  now 
the  Sea,  now  Folkestone  at  a quarter 
after  ten.  “Tickets  ready,  gentlemen  ! * 
Demented  dashes  at  the  door.  “ For 
Paris,  sir?  No  hurry.” 

Not  the  least.  We  are  dropped  slow- 
ly down  to  the  Port,  and  sid’e  to  and 
fro  (the  whole  Train)  before  the  insen- 
sible Royal  George  Hotel  for  some  ten 
minutes.  The  Royal  George  takes  no 
more  heed  of  us  than  its  namesake  un- 
der water  at  Spithead,  or  under  earth  at 


402 


A FLIGHT . 


Windsor,  does.  The  Royal  George’s 
dog  lies  winking  and  blinking  at  us, 
without  taking  the  trouble  to  sit  up ; 
and  the  Royal  George’s  “ wedding 
party”  at  the  open  window  (who  seem, 
1 must  say,  rather  tired  of  bliss)  don’t 
bestow  a solitary  glance  upon  us,  flying 
thus  to  Paris  in  eleven  hours.  The  first 
gentleman,  in  Folkestone  is  evidently 
used  up,  on  this  subject. 

Meanwhile,  Demented  chafes.  Con- 
ceives that  every  man’s  hand  is  against 
him,  and  exerting  itself  to  prevent  his 
getting  to  Paris.  Refuses  consolation. 
Rattles  door.  Sees  smoke  on  the  hori- 
zon, and  “knows”  it’s  the  boat  gone 
without  him.  Moneyed  Interest  resent- 
fully explains  that  he  is  going  to  Paris 
too.  Demented  signifies  that  if  Mon- 
eyed Interest  chooses  to  be  left  behind, 
he  don’t. 

“ Refreshments  in  the  Waiting-Room, 
ladies  and  gentlemen.  No  hurry,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  for  Paris.  No  hurry 
whatever  ! ” 

Twenty  minutes*  pause,  by  Folke- 
stone clock,  for  looking  at  Enchantress 
while  she  eats  a sandwich,  and  at 
Mystery  while  she  eats  of  everything 
there  that  is  eatable,  from  pork-pie, 
sausage,  jam,  and  gooseberries,  to 
lumps  of  sugar.  All  this  time,  there  is 
a very  waterfall  of  luggage,  with  a spray 
of  dust,  tumbling  slantwise  from  the 
pier  into  the  steamboat.  All  this  time, 
Demented  (who  has  no  business  with 
it)  watches  it  with  starting  eyes,  fierce- 
ly requiring  to  be  shown  his  luggage. 
When  it  at  last  concludes  the  cataract, 
he  rushes  hotly  to  refresh  — is  shouted 
after,  pursued,  jostled,  brought  back, 
pitched  into  the  departing  steamer  up- 
side down,  and  caught  by  mariners  dis- 
gracefully. 

A lovely  harvest  day,  a cloudless  sky, 
a tranquil  sea.  The  piston-rods  of  the 
engines,  so  regularly  coming  up  from 
below  to  look  (as  well  they  may)  at  the 
bright  weather,  and  so  regularly  almost 
knocking  their  iron  heads  against  the 
cross-beam  of  the  skylight,  and  never 
doing  it ! Another  Parisian  actress  is 
on  board,  attended  by  another  Myste- 
ry. Compact  Enchantress  greets  her 
sister  artist  — O,  the  Compact  One’s 
pretty  teeth!  — and  Mystery  greets 


Mystery.  My  Mystery  soon  ceases  to 
be  conversational,  — is  taken  poorly,  in 
a word,  having  lunched  too  miscellane- 
ously, — and  goes  below.  The  remain- 
ing Mystery  then  smiles  upon  the  sis- 
ter artist3  (who,  I am  afraid,  would  n’t 
greatly  mind  stabbing  each  other),  and 
is  upon  the  whole  ravished. 

And  now  I find  that  all  the  French 
people  on  board  begin  to  grow,  and  all 
the  English  people  to  shrink.  The 
French  are  nearing  home,  and  shaking 
off  a disadvantage,  whereas  we  are 
shaking  it  on.  Zamiel  is  the  same 
man,  and  Abd-el-Kader  is  the  same 
man,  but  each  seems  to  come  into  pos- 
session of  an  indescribable  confidence 
that  departs  from  us, — from  Moneyed 
Interest,  for  instance,  and  from  me. 
Just  what  they  gain,  we  lose.  Certain 
British  “ Gents  ” about  the  steersman, 
intellectually  nurtured  at  home  on  par- 
ody of  everything  and  truth  of  nothing, 
become  subdued,  and  in  a manner  for- 
lorn ; and  when  the  steersman  tells 
them  (not  unexultingly)  how  he  has 
“ been  upon  this  station  now  eight  year 
and  never  see  the  old  towm  of  Bullum 
yet,”  one  of  them,  with  an  imbecile 
reliance  on  a reed,  asks  him  what  he 
considers  to  be  the  best  hotel  in  Paris  ? 

Now,  I tread  upon  French  ground, 
and  am  greeted  by  the  three  charming 
words,  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity, 
painted  up  (in  letters  a little  too  thin 
for  their  height)  on  the  Custom-House 
wall,  — also  by  the  sight  of  large  cocked 
hats,  without  which  demonstrative 
head-gear  nothing  of  a public  nature 
can  he  done  upon  this  soil.  All  the 
rabid  Hotel  population  of  Boulogne 
howl  and  shriek  outside  a distant  bar- 
rier, frantic  to  get  at  us.  Demented, 
by  some_  unlucky  means  peculiar  to 
himself,  is  delivered  over  to  their  fury, 
and  is  presently  seen  struggling  in  a 
whirlpool  of  Touters,  — is  somehow  un- 
derstood to  be  going  to  Paris,  — is,  with 
infinite  noise,  rescued  by  two  cocked 
hats,  and  brought  into  Custom-House 
bondage  with  the  rest  of  us. 

Here,  I resign  the  active  duties  of 
life  to  an  eager  being,  of  preternatural 
sharpness,  with  a shelving  forehead  and 
a shabby  snuff-colored  coat,  who  (from 
the  wharf)  brought  me  down  with  his 


A FLIGHT. 


403 


eye  before  the  boat  came  into  port.  He 
darts  upon  my  luggage,  on  the  floor 
where  all  the  luggage  is  strewn  like  a 
wreck  at  the  bottom  of  the  great  deep  ; 
gets  it  proclaimed  and  weighed  as  the 
property  of  “ Monsieur  a traveller  up- 
known  ” ; pays  certain  francs  for  it,  to 
a certain  functionary  behind  a Pigeon 
Hole,  like  a pay-box  at  a Theatre  (the 
arrangements  in  general  are  on  a whole- 
sale scale,  half  military  and  half  theat- 
rical) ; and  I suppose  I shall  find  it 
when  I come  to  Paris,  — he  says  I shall. 
I know  nothing  about  it,  except  that  I 
pay  him  his  small  fee,  and  pocket  the 
ticket  he  gives  me,  and  sit  upon  a coun- 
ter, involved  in  the  general  distraction. 

Railway  station.  “ Lunch  or  dinner, 
ladies  and  gentlemen.  Plenty  of  time 
for  Paris.  Plenty  of  time  ! ” Large  hall, 
long  counter,  long  strips  of  dining-table, 
bottles  of  wine,  plates  of  meat,  roast 
chickens,  little  loaves  of  bread,  basins 
of  soup,  little  caraffes  of  brandy,  cakes, 
and  fruit.  Comfortably  restored  from 
these  resources,  I begin  to  fly  again. 

I saw  Zamiel  (before  I took  wing) 
presented  to  Compact  Enchantress  and 
Sister  Artist,  by  an  officer  in  uniform, 
with  a waist  like  a wasp’s  and  panta- 
loons like  two  balloons.  They  all  got 
into  the  next  carriage  together,  accom- 
panied by  the  two  Mysteries.  They 
laughed.  I am  alone  in  the  carriage 
(for  I don’t  consider  Demented  any- 
body) and  alone  in  the  world. 

Fields,  windmills,  low'  grounds,  pol- 
lard-trees, windmills,  fields,  fortifica- 
tions, Abbeville,  soldiering  and  drum- 
ming. I wonder  where  England  is, 
and  when  I was  there  last,  — about  two 
years  ago,  I should  say.  Flying  in  and 
out  among  these  trenches  and  batteries, 
skimming  the  clattering  drawbridges, 
looking  down  into  the  stagnant  ditches, 
I become  a prisoner  of  state,  escaping. 
I am  confined  with  a comrade  in  a fort- 
ress. Our  room  is  in  an  upper  story. 
We  have  tried  to  get  up  the  chimney, 
but  there ’s  an  iron  grating  across  it, 
imbedded  in  the  masonry.  After 
months  of  labor,  we  have  worked  the 
grating  loose  with  the  poker,  and  can 
lift  it  up.  We  have  also  made  a hook, 
and  twisted  our  rugs  and  blankets  into 
ropes.  Our  plan  is,  to  go  up  the  chim- 


ney, hook  our  ropes  to  the  top,  descend 
hand  over  hand  upon  the  roof  of  the 
guard-house  far  below,  shake  the  hook 
loose,  watch  the  opportunity  of  the  sen- 
tinel’s pacing  away,  hook  again,  drop 
into  the  ditch,  swim  across  it,  creep  into 
the  shelter  of  the  wood.  The  time  is 
come,  — a wild  and  stormy  night.  We 
are  up  the  chimney,  we  are  on  the 
guard-house  roof,  we  are  swimming  in 
the  murky  ditch,  when  lo  ! “ Qui  v’ll  ? ” 
a bugle,  the  alarm,  a crash  ! What  is 
it?  Death?  No,  Amiens. 

More  fortifications,  more  soldiering 
and  drumming,  more  basins  of  soup, 
more  little  loaves  of  bread,  more  bottles 
of  wine,  more  caraffes  of  brandy,  more 
time  for  refreshment.  Everything  good 
and  everything  ready.  Bright,  unsub- 
stantial-looking, scenic  sort  of  station. 
People  waiting.  Houses,  uniforms, 
beards,  mustaches,  some  sabots,  plenty 
of  neat  women,  and  a few  old-visaged 
children.  Unless  it  be  a delusion  born 
of  my  giddy  flight,  the  grown-up  people 
and  the  children  seem  to  change  places 
in  France.  In  general,  the  boys  and 
girls  are  little  old  men  and  women,  and 
the  men  and  women  lively  boys  and 
girls. 

Bugle,  shriek,  flight  resumed.  Mon- 
eyed Interest  has  come  into  my  carriage. 
Says  the  manner  of  refreshing  is  “ not 
bad,”  but  considers  it  French.  Admits 
great  dexterity  and  politeness  in  the  at- 
tendants. Thinks  a decimal  currency 
may  have  something  to  do  with  their 
despatch  in  settling  accounts,  and  don’t 
know  but  what  it ’s  sensible  and  con- 
venient. Adds,  however,  as  a general 
protest,  that  they  ’re  a revolutionary 
people,  — and  always  at  it. 

Ramparts,  canals,  cathedral,  river,  sol- 
diering and  drumming,  open  country, 
river,  earthenware  manufactures,  Creil. 
Again  ten  minutes.  Not  even  Dement- 
ed in  a hurry.  Station,  a drawing-room 
with  a veranda,  — like  a planter’s  house. 
Moneyed  Interest  considers  it  a band- 
box,  and  not  made  to  last.  Little  round 
tables  in  it,  at  one  of  which  the  Sister 
Artists  and  attendant  Mysteries  are  es- 
tablished with  Wasp  and  Zamiel,  as  if 
they  were  going  to  stay  a week. 

Anon,  with  no  more  trouble  than  be- 
fore, I am  flying  again,  and  lazily  won- 


4°4 


A FLIGHT. 


dering  as  I fly.  What  has  the  South- 
eastern done  with  all  the  horrible  lit- 
tle villages  we  used  to  pass  through, 
in  the  Diligence  ? What  have  they 
done  with  all  the  summer  dust,  with 
all  the  winter  mud,  with  all  the  dreary 
avenues  of  little  trees,  with  all  the 
ramshackle  post-yards,  with  all  the  beg- 
gars (who  used  to  turn  out  at  night  with 
bits  of  lighted  candle,  to  look  in  at  the 
coach  windows),  with  all  the  long-tailed 
horses  who  were  always  biting  one  an- 
other, with  all  the  big  postilions  in  jack- 
boots,  — with  all  the  mouldy  cafes  that 
we  used  to  stop  at,  where  a long  mil- 
dewed tablecloth,  set  forth  with  jovial 
bottles  of  vinegar  and  oil,  and  with  a 
Siamese  arrangement  of  pepper  and 
salt,  was  never  wanting?  Where  are 
the  grass-grown  little  towns,  the  won- 
derful little  market-places  all  uncon- 
scious of  markets,  the  shops  that  nobody 
kept,  the  streets  that  nobody  trod,  the 
churches  that  nobody  went  to,  the 
bells  that  nobody  rang,  the  tumble- 
down  old  buildings  plastered  with 
many-colored  bills  that  nobody  read? 
Where  are  the  two-and-twenty  weary 
hours  of  long,  long  day  and  night  jour- 
ney, sure  to  be  either  insupportably  hot 
or  insupportably  cold  ? Where  are  the 
pains  in  my  bones,  where  are  the 
fidgets  in  my  legs,  where  is  the  French- 
man with  the  nightcap  who  never 
•wotild  have  the  little  coupe-window 
down,  and  who  always  fell  upon  me 
when  he  went  to  sleep,  and  always 
slept  all  night  snoring  onions  ? 

A voice  breaks  in  with,  “ Paris  ! Here 
we  are  ! ” 

I have  overflown  myself,  perhaps,  but 
I can’t  believe  it.  I feel  as  if  I were  en- 
chanted or  bewutched.  It  is  barely  eight 
o’clock  yet  — it  is  nothing  like  half  past 
— when  I have  had  my  luggage  exam- 
ined at  that  briskest  of  Custom-Houses 
attached  to  the  station,  and  am  rattling 
over  the  pavement  in  a Hackney  cabri- 
olet. 

Surely,  not  the  pavement  of  Paris? 
Yes,  I think  it  is,  too.  I don’t  know 
any  other  place  where  there  are  all  these 
high  houses,  all  these  haggard-looking 
wine  shops,  all  these  billiard-tables,  all 
these  stocking-makers  with  flat  red  or 
yellow  legs  of  wood  for  signboard,  all 


these  fuel  shops  with  stacks  of  billets 
painted  outside,  and  real  billets  sawing 
in  the  gutter,  all  these  dirty  corners  of 
streets,  all  these  cabinet  pictures  over 
dark  doorways  representing  discreet 
patrons  nursing  babies.  And  yet  this 
morning  — I ’ll  think  of  it  in  a warm- 
bath. 

Very  like  a small  room  that  I remem- 
ber in  the  Chinese  Baths  upon  the  Bou- 
levard, certainly;  and,  though  I see  it 
through  the  steam,  I think  that  I might 
swear  to  that  peculiar  hot-linen  basket, 
like  a large  wicker  hourglass.  When 
can  it  have  been  that  I left  home  ? 
When  was  it  that  I paid  “through  to 
Paris”  at  London  Bridge,  and  dis- 
charged myself  of  all  responsibility, 
except  the  preservation  of  a voucher 
ruled  into  three  divisions,  of  which  the 
first  was  snipped  off  at  Folkestone,  the 
second  aboard  the  boat,  and  the  third 
taken  at  my  journey’s  end?  It  seems 
to  have  been  ages  ago.  Calculation  is 
useless.  I will  go  out  for  a walk. 

The  crowds  in  the  streets,  the  lights 
in  the  shops  and  balconies,  the  elegance, 
variety,  and  beauty  of  their  decorations, 
the  number  of  the  theatres,  the  brilliant 
cafes  with  their  windows  thrown  up  high 
and  their  vivacious  groups  at  little  tables 
on  the  pavement,  the  light  and  glitter 
of  the  houses  turned  as  it  were  inside 
out,  soon  convince  me  that  it  is  no 
dream ; that  I am  in  Paris,  howsoever 
I got  here.  I stroll  down  to  the  spark- 
ling Palais  Royal,  up  the  Rue  de 
Rivoii,  to  the  Place  Vendome.  As  I 
glance  into  a print-shop  window,  Mon- 
eyed Interest,  my  late  travelling  com- 
panion, comes  upon  me,  laughing  w’ith 
the  highest  relish  of  disdain.  “ Here ’s 
a people  ! ” he  says,  pointing  to  Napo- 
leon in  the  window  and  Napoleon  on  the 
column.  “ Only  one  idea  all  over  Paris  ! 
A monomania  ! ” Humph  ! I think 
I have  seen  Napoleon’s  match?  There 
was  a statue,  when  I came  away,  at 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  and  another  in  the 
City,  and  a print  or  two  in  the  shops. 

I walk  up  to  the  Barreire  de  l’Etoile, 
sufficiently  dazed  by  my  flight  to  have  a 
pleasant  doubt  of  the  reality  of  every- 
thing about  me  ; of  the  lively  crowd, 
the  overhanging  trees,  the  peforming 
dogs,  the  hobby-horses,  the  beautiful 


THE  DETECTIVE  POLICE . 


405 


erspectives  of  shining  lamps ; the 
undred  and  one  enclosures,  where  the 
singing  is,  in  gleaming  orchestras  of 
azure  and  gold,  and  where  a star-eyed 
Houri  comes  round  with  a box  for  vol- 
untary offerings.  So  I pass  to  my  ho- 
tel, enchanted  ; sup,  enchanted  ; go  to 
bed,  enchanted ; pushing  back  this 
morning  (if  it  really  were  this  morn- 


ing) into  the  remoteness  of  time,  bless- 
ing the  Southeastern  Company  for 
realizing  the  Arabian  Nights  in  these 
prose  days,  murmuring,  as  1 wing  my 
idle  flight  into  the  land  of  dreams, 
“ No  hurry,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  go- 
ing to  Paris  in  eleven  hours.  It  is  so 
well  done,  that  there  really  is  no  hur- 
ry 1” 


THE  DETECTIVE  POLICE. 


We  are  not  by  any  means  devout 
believers  in  the  Old  Bow  Street  Police. 
To  say  the  truth,  we  think  there  was  a 
vast  amount  of  humbug  about  those 
worthies.  Apart  from  many  of  them 
being  men  of  very  indifferent  character, 
and  far  too  much  in  the  habit  of  consort- 
ing with  thieves  and  the  like,  they  never 
lost  a public  occasion  of  jobbing  and 
trading  in  mystery  and  making  the 
most  of  themselves.  Continually  puffed 
besides  by  incompetent  magistrates 
anxious  to  conceal  their  own  deficien- 
cies, and  hand-iu-glove  with  the  penny- 
a-liners  of  that  time,  they  became  a sort 
of  superstition.  Although  as  a Preven- 
tive Police  they  were  utterly  ineffective, 
and  as  a Detective  Police  were  very 
loose  and  uncertain  in  their  operations, 
they  remain  with  some  people  a super- 
stition to  the  present  day. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Detective 
Force  organized  since  the  establishment 
of  the  existing  Police,  is  so  well  chosen 
and  trained,  proceeds  so  systematically 
and  quietly,  does  its  business  in  such 
a workmanlike  manner,  and  is  always 
so  calmly  and  steadily  engaged  in  the 
service  of  the  public,  that  the  public 
really  do  not  know  enough  of  it  to  know 
a tithe  of  its  usefulness.  Impressed 
with  this  conviction,  and  interested  in 
the  men  themselves,  we  represented  to 
the  authorities  at  Scotland  Yard,  that 
we  should  be  glad,  if  there  were  no 
official  objection,  to  have  some  talk 


with  the  Detectives.  A most  obliging 
and  ready  permission  being  given,  a 
certain  evening  was  appointed  with  a 
certain  Inspector  for  a social  confer- 
ence between  ourselves  and  the  Detec- 
tives, at  The  Household  Words  Office 
in  Wellington  Street,  Strand,  London. 
In  consequence  of  which  appointment 
the  party  “came  off,”  which  we  are 
about  to  describe.  And  we  beg  to 
repeat  that,  avoiding  such  topics  as  it 
might  for  obvious  reasons  be  injurious 
to  the  public,  or  disagreeable  to  respect- 
able individuals,  to  touch  upon  in  print, 
our  description  is  as  exact  as  we  can 
make  it. 

The  reader  will  have  the  goodness 
to  imagine  the  Sanctum  Sanctorum  of 
Household  Words.  Anything  that 
best  suits  the  reader’s  fancy,  will  best 
represent  that  magnificent  chamber. 
We  merely  stipulate  for  a round  table 
in  the  middle,  with  some  glasses  and 
cigars  arranged  upon  it  ; and  the  edi- 
torial sofa  elegantly  hemmed  in  be- 
tween that  stately  piece  of  furniturf 
and  the  wall. 

It  is  a sultry  evening  at  dusk.  The 
stones  of  Wellington  Street  are  hot  and 
gritty,  and  the  watermen  and  hackney- 
coachmen  at  the  Theatre  opposite  are 
much  flushed  and  aggravated.  Car- 
riages are  constantly  setting  down  the 
people  who  have  come  to  Fairy-Land  ; 
and  there  is  a mighty  shouting  and 
bellowing  every  now  and  then,  deafen- 


THE  DETECTIVE  POLICE. 


406 


in g us  for  the  moment,  through  the 
open  windows. 

Just  at  dusk,  Inspectors  Wield  and 
Stalker  are  announced  ; but  we  do  not 
undertake  to  warrant  the  orthography 
of  any  of  the  names  here  mentioned. 
Inspector  Wield  presents  Inspector 
Stalker.  Inspector  Wield  is  a middle- 
aged  man  of  a pordy  presence,  with  a 
large,  moist,  knowing  eye,  a husky 
voice,  and  a habit  of  emphasizing  his 
conversation  by  the  aid  of  a corpulent 
forefinger,  which  is  constantly  in  juxta- 
position with  his  eyes  or  nose.  Inspec- 
tor Stalker  is  a shrewd,  hard-headed 
Scotchman,  — in  appearance  not  at  all 
unlike  a very  acute,  thoroughly-trained 
schoolmaster,  from  the  Normal  Estab- 
lishment at  Glasgow.  Inspector  Wield 
one  might  have  known,  perhaps,  for 
what  he  is,  — Inspector  Stalker  never. 

The  ceremonies  of  reception  over, 
Inspectors  Wield  and  Stalker  observe 
that  they  have  brought  some  sergeants 
with  them.  The  sergeants  are  pre- 
sented, — five  in  number,  — Sergeant 
Dornton,  Sergeant  Witchem,  Sergeant 
Mith,  Sergeant  Fendall,  and  Sergeant 
Straw.  We  have  the  whole  Detective 
Force  from  Scotland  Yard,  with  one  ex- 
ception. They  sit  down  in  a semicircle 
(the  two  Inspectors  at  the  two  ends) 
at  a little  distance  from  the  round  table, 
facing  the  editorial  sofa.  Every  man 
of  them,  in  a glance,  immediately  takes 
an  inventory  of  the  furniture  and  an 
accurate  sketch  of  the  editorial  pres- 
ence. The  Editor  feels  that  any  gen- 
tleman in  company  could  take  him  up, 
if  need  should  be,  without  the  smallest 
hesitation,  twenty  years  hence. 

The  whole  party  are  in  plain  clothes. 
Sergeant  Dornton,  about  fifty  years  of 
age,  with  a ruddy  face  and  a high  sun- 
burnt forehead,  has  the  air  of  one  who 
has  been  a Sergeant  in  the  arm}',  — he 
might  have  sat  to  Wilkie  for  the  Sol- 
dier in  the  Reading  of  the  Will.  He 
is  famous  for  steadily  pursuing  the  in- 
ductive process,  and,  from  small  be- 
ginnings, working  on  from  clew  to  clew 
until  he  bags  his  man.  Sergeant 
Witchem,  shorter  and  thicker-set,  and 
marked  with  the  small-pox,  has  some- 
thing of  a reserved  and  thoughtful  air, 
as  if  he  were  engaged  in  deep  arith- 


metical calculations.  He  is  renowned 
for  his  acquaintance  with  the  swell 
mob.  Sergeant  Mith,  a smooth-faced 
man  with  a fresh  bright  complexion, 
and  a strange  air  of  simplicity,  is  a dab 
at  housebreakers.  Sergeant  Fendall, 
a light-haired,  well-spoken,  polite  per- 
son, is  a prodigious  hand  at  pursuing 
private  inquiries  of  a delicate  nature. 
Straw,  a little  wiry  Sergeant  of  meek 
demeanor  and  strong  sense,  w'ould  knock 
at  a door  and  ask  a series  of  ques- 
tions in  any  mild  character  you  choose 
to  prescribe  to  him,  from  a charity-boy 
upwards,  and  seem  as  innocent  as  an 
infant.  They  are,  one  and  all,  respec- 
table-looking men  ; of  perfectly  good 
deportment  and  unusual  intelligence  ; 
with  nothing  lounging  or  slinking  in 
their  manners  ; w'ith  an  air  of  keen  ob- 
servation and  quick  perception  when 
addressed  ; and  generally  presenting  in 
their  faces  traces  more  or  less  marked 
of  habitually  leading  lives  of  strong 
mental  excitement.  They  have  all  good 
eyes  ; and  they  all  can,  and  they  all 
do,  look  full  at  whomsoever  they  speak 
to. 

We  light  the  cigars,  and  hand  round 
the  glasses  (which  are  very  temperately 
used  indeed),  and  the  conversation  be- 
gins by  a modest  amateur  reference  on 
the  Editorial  part  to  the  swell  mob. 
Inspector  Wield  immediately  removes 
his  cigar  from  his  lips,  waves  his  right 
hand,  and  says,  “ Regarding  the  sw  ell 
mob,  sir,  I can’t  do  better  than  call  upon 
Sergeant  Witchem.  Because  the  rea- 
son why  ? I ’ll  tell  you.  Sergeant 
Witchem  is  better  acquainted  with  the 
swell  mob  than  any  officer  in  London.” 

Our  heart  leaping  up  when  we  beheld 
this  rainbow  in  the  sky,  w'e  turn  to  Ser- 
geant Witchem,  who  very  concisely, 
and  in  w'ell-chosen  language,  goes  into 
the  subject  forthwith.  Meantime,  the 
whole  of  his  brother  officers  are  closely 
interested  in  attending  to  what  he  says, 
and  observing  its  effect.  Presently 
they  begin  to  strike  in,  one  or  two 
together,  when  an  opportunity  offers, 
and  the  conversation  becomes  general. 
But  these  brother  officers  only  come  in 
to  the  assistance  of  each  other,  — not  to 
the  contradiction,  — and  a more  amica- 
ble brotherhood  there  could  not  be. 


THE  DETECTIVE  POLICE. 


407 


From  the  swell  mob,  we  diverge  to  the 
kindred  topics  of  cracksmen,  fences, 
public-house  dancers,  area-sneaks,  de- 
signing young  people  who  go  out  “ gon- 
ophing,”  and  other  “schools.”  It  is 
observable  throughout  these  revelations 
that  Inspector  Stalker,  the  Scotchman, 
is  always  exact  and  statistical,  and  that 
when  any  question  of  figures  arises, 
everybody  as  by  one  consent  pauses, 
and  looks  to  him. 

When  we  have  exhausted  the  various 
schools  of  Art, — during  which  discus- 
sion the  whole  body  have  remained 
profoundly  attentive,  except  when  some 
unusual  noise  at  the  theatre  over  the 
way  has  induced  some  gentleman  to 
glance  inquiringly  towards  the  window 
in  that  direction,  behind  his  next  neigh- 
bor’s back,  — we  burrow  for  information 
on  Such  points  as  the  following.  Wheth- 
er there  really  are  any  highway  rob- 
beries in  London,  or  whether  some  cir- 
cumstances not  convenient  to  be  men- 
tioned by  the  aggrieved  party  usually 
precede  the  robberies  complained  of, 
under  that  head,  which  quite  change 
their  character?  Certainly,  the  latter, 
almost  always.  Whether  in  the  case 
of  robberies  in  houses,  where  servants 
are  necessarily  exposed  to  doubt,  inno- 
cence under  suspicion  ever  becomes  so 
like  guilt  in  appearance,  that  a good 
officer  need  be  cautious  how  he  judges 
it?  Undoubtedly.  Nothing  is  so  com- 
mon or  deceptive  as  such  appearances 
at  first.  Whether  in  a place  of  public 
amusement,  a thief  knows  an  officer, 
and  an  officer  knows  a thief,  — suppos- 
ing them,  beforehand,  strangers  to  each 
other, — because  each  recognizes  in  the 
other,  under  all  disguise,  an  inatten- 
tion to  what  is  going  on,  and  a purpose 
that  is  not  the  purpose  of  being  enter- 
tained? Yes.  That ’s  the  way  exactly. 
Whether  it  is  reasonable  or  ridiculous 
to.  trust  to  the  alleged  experiences  of 
thieves  as  narrated  by  themselves,  in 
prisons,  or  penitentiaries,  or  anywhere? 
In  general,  nothing  more  absurd.  Ly- 
ing is  their  habit  and  their  trade  ; and 
they  would  rather  lie  — even  if  they 
hadn’t  an  interest  in  it,  and  didn’t  want 
to  make  themselves  agreeable  — than 
tell  the  truth. 

From  these  topics,  we  glide  into  a 


review  of  the  most  celebrated  and  horri- 
ble of  the  great  crimes  that  have  been 
committed  within  the  last  fifteen  or 
twenty  years.  The  men  engaged  in 
the  discovery  of  almost  all  of  them,  and 
in  the  pursuit  or  apprehension  of  the 
murderers,  are  here,  down  to  the  very 
last  instance.  One  of  our  guests  gave 
chase  to  and  boarded  the  emigrant  ship 
in  which  the  murderess  last  hanged  in 
London  was  supposed  to  have  em- 
barked. We  learn  from  him  that  his 
errand  was  not  announced  to  the  pas- 
sengers, who  may  have  no  idea  of  it 
to  this  hour.  That  he  went  below, 
with  the  captain,  lamp  in  hand,  — it 
being  dark,  and  the  whole  steerage 
abed  and  sea-sick,  — and  engaged  the 
Mrs.  Manning,  who  was  on  board,  in 
a conversation  about  her  luggage,  until 
she  was,  with  no  small  pains,  induced 
to  raise  her  head,  and  turn  her  face  to- 
wards the  light.  Satisfied  that  she  was 
not  the  object  of  his  search,  he  quietly 
re-embarked  in  the  government  steamer 
alongside,  and  steamed  home  again  with 
the  intelligence. 

When  we  have  exhausted  these  sub- 
jects, too,  which  occupy  a considerable 
time  in  the  discussion,  two  or  three 
leave  their  chairs,  whisper  Sergeant 
Witchem,  and  resume  their  seats.  Ser- 
geant Witchem  leaning  forward  a little, 
and  placing  a hand  on  each  of  his  legs, 
then  modestly  speaks  as  follows  : — 

“ My  brother-officers  wish  me  to  re- 
late a little  account  of  my  taking  Tally- 
ho  Thompson.  A man  ought  n’t  to  tell 
what  he  has  done  himself ; but  still,  as 
nobody  was  with  me,  and,  consequently, 
as  nobody  but  myself  can  tell  it,  I ’ll 
do  it  in  the  best  wav  I can,  if  it  should 
meet  your  approval.” 

We  assure  Sergeant  Witchem  that 
he  will  oblige  us  very  much,  and  we  all 
compose  ourselves  to  listen  with  great 
interest  and  attention. 

“ Tally-ho  Thompson,”  says  Ser- 
geant Witchem.  after  merely  wetting  his 
lips  with  his  brandy  and  water,  — “ Tal- 
ly-ho Thompson  was  a famous  horse- 
stealer, couper,  and  magsman.  Thomp- 
son, in  conjunction  with  a pal  that  oc- 
casionally worked  with  him,  gammoned 
a countryman  out  of  a good  round  sum 
of  money,  upder  pretence  of  getting 


40  3 


THE  DETECTIVE  POLICE. 


him  a situation,  — the  regular  old  dodge, 
— and  was  afterwards  in  the  ‘Hue  and 
Cry  * for  a horse,  — a horse  that  he  stole, 
down  in  Hertfordshire.  I had  to  look 
after  Thompson,  and  I applied  myself, 
of  course,  in  the  first  instance,  to  dis- 
covering where  he  was.  Now,  Thomp- 
son’s wife  lived,  along  with  a little 
daughter,  at  Chelsea.  Knowing  that 
Thompson  was  somewhere  in  the  coun- 
try, I watched  the  house,  — especially 
at  post-time  in  the  morning,  — thinking 
Thompson  was  pretty  likely  to  write 
to  her.  Sure  enough,  one  morning  the 
postman  comes  up,  and  delivers  a letter 
at  Mrs.  Thompson’s  door.  Little  girl 
opens  the  door,  and  takes  it  in.  We  ’re 
not  always  sure  of  postmen,  though  the 
people  at  the  post-offices  are  always 
very  obliging.  A postman  may  help 
us,  or  he  may  not,  — just  as  it  happens. 
However,  I go  across  the  road,  and  I 
say  to  the  postman,  after  he  has  left 
the  letter,  ‘ Good  morning ! how  are 
you  ? ’ ‘ How  are  you,  ? ’ says  he. 

‘ You ’ve  just  delivered  a letter  for  Mrs. 
Thompson.’  ‘Yes,  I have.’  ‘You 
did  n’t  happen  to  remark  what  the  post- 
mark was,  perhaps?’  ‘No,’  says  he, 
‘ I did  n’t.’  ‘ Come,’  says  I,  ‘ I ’ll  be  plain 
with  you.  I ’m  in  a small  way  of  busi- 
ness, and  I have  given  Thompson  credit, 
and  I can’t  afford  to  lose  what  he  owes 
me.  I know  he ’s  got  money,  and  I 
know  he ’s  in  the  country,  and  if  you 
could  tell  me  what  the  postmark  was, 
I should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you, 
and  you ’d  do  a service  to  a tradesman 
in  a small  way  of  business  that  can’t 
afford  a loss.’  ‘Well,’  he  said,  ‘I  do 
assure  you  that  I did  not  observe  what 
the  postmark  was  ; all  I know  is,  that 
there  was  money  in  the  letter,  — I should 
say  a sovereign.’  This  was  enough  for 
me,  because  of  course  I knew  that 
Thompson  having  sent  his  wife  money, 
it  was  probable  she ’d  write  to  Thomp- 
son, by  return  of  post,  to  acknowledge 
the  receipt.  So  I said,  ‘ Thankee,’  to  the 
postman,  and  I kept  on  the  watch.  In 
the  afternoon  I saw  the  little  girl  come 
out.  Of  course  I followed  her.  She 
went  into  a stationer’s  shop,  and  I 
need  n’t  say  to  you  that  I looked  in  at 
the  window.  She  bought  some  writing- 
paper  and  envelopes,  and  a pen.  I 


think  to  myself,  ‘ That  ’ll  do  ! ’ — watch 
her  home  again, — and  don’t  go  away, 
you  may  be  sure,  knowing  that  Mrs. 
Thompson  was  writing  her  letter  t( 
Tally-ho,  and  that  the  letter  would  be 
posted  presently.  In  about  an  hour  o! 
so,  out  came  the  little  girl  again,  with 
the  letter  in  her  hand.  I went  up, 
and  said  something  to  the  child, 
whatever  it  might  have  been  ; but  I 
could  n’t  see  the  direction  of  the  letter, 
because  she  held  it  with  the  seal  up- 
wards. However,  I observed  that  on 
the  back  of  the  letter  there  was  what 
we  call  a kiss,  — a drop  of  wax  by  the 
side  of  the  seal,  — and  again,  you  under- 
stand that  was  enough  for  me.  I saw 
her  post  the  letter,  waited  till  she  was 
gone,  then  went  into  the  shop,  and 
asked  to  see  the  Master.  When  he 
came  out,  I told  him,  ‘Now,  I’m  an 
Officer  in  the  Detective  force  ; there ’s 
a letter  with  a kiss  been  posted  here 
just  now  for  a man  that  I’m  in  search 
of ; and  what  I have  to  ask  of  you  is, 
that  you  will  let  me  look  at  the  direc- 
tion of  that  letter.  ’ He  was  very  civil, 
— took  a lot  of  letters  from  the  box 
in  the  window,  — shook  ’em  out  on  the 
counter  with  the  faces  downwards,  — and 
there  among  ’em  was  the  identical  let- 
ter with  the  kiss.  It  was  directed, 

Mr.  Thomas  Pigeon,  Post-Office,  P> , 

to  be  left  till  called  for.  Down  I went 

to  B (a  hundred  and  twenty  miles 

or  so)  that  night.  Early  next  morning  I 
went  to  the  Post-Office  ; saw  the  gen- 
tleman in  charge  of  that  department ; 
told  him  who  I was ; and  that  my  ob- 
ject was  to  see,  and  track,  the  party 
that  should  come  for  the  letter  for  Mr. 
Thomas  Pigeon.  He  was  very  polite, 
and  said,  ‘You  shall  have  every  as- 
sistance we  can  give  you  ; you  can  wait 
inside  the  office  ; and  we  ’ll  take  care  to 
let  you  know  when  anybody  comes  for 
the  letter.’  Well,  I waited  there  three 
days,  and  began  to  think  that  nobody 
ever  would  come.  At  last  the  clerk 
whispered  to  me,  ‘ Here  ! Detective  ! 
Somebody ’s  come  for  the  letter ! ’ 

‘ Keep  him  a minute,’  said  I,  and  I ran 
round  to  the  outside  of  the  office. 
There  I saw  a young  chap  with  the  ap- 
pearance of  an  ostler,  holding  a horse 
by  the  bridle,  — stretching  the  bridle 


THE  DETECTIVE  POLICE. 


across  the  pavement,  while  he  waited  at 
the  Post-Office  window  for  the  letter. 

1 began  to  pat  the  horse,  and  that. ; and 
I said  to  the  boy,  ‘ Why,  this  is  Mr. 
Jones’s  mare  ! ’ ‘No.  It  ain’t.’  ‘No?’ 
said  I.  ‘She’s  very  like  Mr.  Jones’s 
mare  ! ’ ‘ She  ain’t  Mr.  Jones’s  mare, 

anyhow*,’  says  he.  ‘It’s  Mr.  So-and- 
so’s,  of  the  Warwick  Arms.’  And  up 
he  jumped,  and  off  he  went,  — letter  and 
all.  I got  a cab,  followed  on  the  box, 
and  was  so  quick  after  him  that  I came 
into  the  stable-yard  of  the  Warwick 
Arms  by  one  gate,  just  as  he  came  in 
by  another.  I went  into  the  bar,  where 
there  was  a young  woman  serving,  and 
called  for  a glass  of  brandy  and  water. 
He  came  in  directly,  and  handed  her 
the  letter.  She  casually  looked  at  it, 
without  saying  anything,  and  stuck  it 
up  behind  the  glass  over  the  chimney- 
piece.  What  was  to  be  done  next  ? 

“ I turned  it  over  in  my  mind  while  I 
drank  my  brandy  and  water  (looking 
pretty  sharp  at  the  letter  the  while),  but 
I could  n’t  see  my  way  out  of  it  at  all. 

I tried  to  get  lodgings  in  the  house,  but 
there  had  been  a horse-fair,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  and  it  was  full.  I 
was  obliged  to  put  up  somewhe^  else, 
but  I came  backwards  and  forwards  to 
the  bar  for  a couple  of  days,  and  there 
was  the  letter  always  behind  the  glass. 
At  last  I thought  I ’d  write  a letter  to 
Mr.  Pigeon  myself,  and  see  what  that 
would  do.  So  I wrote  one,  and  posted 
it,  but  I purposely  addressed  it,  Mr. 
John  Pigeon,  instead  of  Mr.  Thomas 
Pigeon,  to  see  what  that  would  do.  In 
the  morning  (a  very  wet  morning  it  was) 

I watched  the  postman  down  the  street, 
and  cut  into  the  bar,  just  before  he 
reached  the  Warwick  Arms.  In  he 
came  presently  with  my  letter.  ‘ Is 
there  a Mr.  John  Pigeon  staying  here?’ 
‘No!  — stop  a bit,  though,’  says  the 
barmaid  ; and  she  took  down  the  letter 
behind  the  glass.  ‘No,’  says  she,  ‘ it ’s 
Thomas,  and  he  is  not  staying  here. 
Would  you  do  me  a favor,  and  post  this 
for  me,  as  it  is  so  wet?’  The  postman 
said  ‘Yes’ ; she  folded  it  in  another  en- 
velope, directed  it,  and  gave  it  him. 
He  put  it  in  his  hat,  and  aw’ay  he 
went. 

“ I had  no  difficulty  in  finding  out  1 


409 

the  direction  of  that  letter.  It  was  ad- 
dressed, Mr.  Thomas  Pigeon,  Post-Of- 
fice, R , Northamptonshire,  to  be  left 

till  called  for.  Off  I started  directly  for 

R ; I said  the  same  at  the  Post-Office 

there,  as  I had  said  at  B ; and  again 

I waited  three  days  before  anybody 
came.  At  last  another  chap  on  horse- 
back came.  ‘ Any  letters  for  Mr.  Thom- 
as Pigeon  ? ’ ‘ Where  do  you  come 

from  ?’  ‘ New  Inn,  near  R .’  He 

got  the  letter,  and  away  he  went  at  a 
canter. 

“ I made  my  inquiries  about  the  New 

Inn,  near  R , and  hearing  it  was  a 

solitary  sort  of  house,  a little  in  the 
horse  line,  about  a couple  of  miles  from 
the  sfation,  I thought  I ’d  go  and  have 
a look  at  it.  I found  it  what  it  had 
been  described,  and  sauntered  in,  to 
look  about  me.  The  landlady  was  in 
the  bar,  and  I wras  trying  to  get  into 
conversation  with  her ; asked  her  how 
business  was,  and  spoke  about  the  wet 
weather,  and  so  on ; when  I saw, 
through  an  open  door,  three  men  sitting 
by  the  fire  in  a sort  of  parlor,  or  kitch- 
en ; and  one  of  those  men,  according  to 
the  description  I had  of  him,  was  Tal- 
ly-ho Thompson  ! 

“ I went  and  sat  down  among  ’em, 
and  tried  to  make  things  agreeable  ; but 
they  were  very  shy,  — wouldn’t  talk  at 
all,  — looked  at  me,  and  at  one  another, 
in  a way  quite  the  reverse  of  sociable. 
I reckoned  ’em  up,  and  finding  that 
they  were  all  three  bigger  men  than  me, 
and  considering  that  their  looks  were 
ugly,  — that  it  was  a lonely  place,  — 
railroad  station  two  miles  off,  — and 
night  coming  on, — thought  I couldn’t 
do  better  than  have  a drop  of  brandy 
and  water  to  keep  my  courage  up.  So 
I called  for  my  brandy  and  water  ; and 
as  I was  sitting  drinking  it  by  the  fire, 
Thompson  got  up  and  went  out. 

“Now  the  difficulty  of  it  was,  that  I 
wasn’t  sure  it  was  Thompson,  because 
I had  never  set  eyes  on  him  before  ; and 
what  I had  wanted  was  to  be  quite  cer- 
tain of  him.  However,  there  was  noth- 
ing for  it  now,  but  to  follow,  and  put  a 
bold  face  upon  it.  I found  him  talking 
outside  in  the  yard  with  the  landlady. 
It  turned  out  afterwards  that  he  was 
wanted  by  a Northampton  officer  for 


410 


THE  DETECTIVE  POLICE. 


something  else,  and  that,  knowing  that 
officer  to  be  pock-marked  (as  I am 
myself),  he  mistook  me  for  him.  As  I 
have  observed,  I found  him  talking  to 
the  landlady  outside.  I put  my  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  — this  way,  — and 
said  : ‘ Tally-ho  Thompson,  it ’s  no  use. 
I know  you.  I ’m  an  officer  from  Lon- 
don, and  I take  you  into  custody  for 
felony  ! ’ ‘ That  be  d — d ! ’ says  Tally- 

ho  Thompson. 

“We  went  back  into  the  house,  and 
the  two  friends  began  to  cut  up  rough, 
and  their  looks  did  n’t  please  me  at  all, 
I assure  you.  ‘ Let  the  man  go.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  with  him?’  ‘I’ll 
tell  you  what  I ’m  going  to  do  with 
him.  I ’m  going  to  take  him  to  London 
to-night,  as  sure  as  I ’m  alive.  I ’m 
not  alone  here,  whatever  you  may  think. 
You  mind  your  own  business,  and  keep 
yourselves  to  yourselves.  It  ’ll  be  bet- 
ter for  you,  for  I know  you  both  very 
well.’  7 ’d  never  seen  or  heard  of ’em 
in  all  my  life,  but  my  bouncing  cowed 
’em  a bit,  and  they  kept  off,  while 
Thompson  was  making  ready  to  go.  I 
thought  to  myself,  however,  that  they 
might  be  coming  after  me  on  the  dark 
road,  to  rescue  Thompson  ; so  I said  to 
the  landlady,  ‘What  men  have  you  got 
in  the  house,  Missis?’  ‘We  haven’t 
got  no  men  here,’  she  says,  sulkily. 
‘You  have  got  an  ostler,  I suppose?’ 
‘Yes,  we’ve  got  an  ostler.’  ‘Let  me 
see  him.’  Presently  he  came,  and  a 
shaggy-headed  young  fellow  he  was. 

‘ Now,  attend  to  me,  young  man,’  says 
I ; ‘I’m  a Detective  Officer  from  Lon- 
don. This  man’s  name  is  Thompson. 
I have  taken  him  into  custody  for  fel- 
ony. I ’m  going  to  take  him  to  the 
railroad  station.  I call  upon  you  in 
the  Queen’s  name  to  assist  me ; and 
mind  you,  my  friend,  you’ll  get  your- 
self into  more  trouble  than  you  know 
of,  if  you  don’t!’  You  never  saw  a 
person  open  his  eyes  so  wide.  ‘ Now, 
Thompson,  come  along  ! ’ says  I.  But 
when  I took  out  the  handcuffs,  Thomp- 
son cries,  ‘ No  ! None  of  that ! 1 

won’t  stand  them  ! I ’ll  go  along  with 
you  quiet,  but  I won’t  bear  none  of 
that ! ’ ‘ Tally-ho  Thompson,’  I said, 

‘ I ’m  willing  to  behave  as  a man  to 
you,  if  you  are  willing  to  behave  as  a 


man  to  me.  Give  me  your  word  that 
you  ’ll  come  peaceably  along,  and  I 
don’t  want  to  handcuff  you.’  ‘I  will,’ 
says  Thompson,  ‘but  I ’ll  have  a glass 
of  brandy  first.’  ‘ I don’t  care  if  I ’ve 
another,’  said  I.  ‘We’ll  have  two 
more.  Missis,’  said  the  friends,  ‘ and 
con-found  you,  Constable,  you’ll  give 
your  man  a drop  won’t  you?’  I was 
agreeable  to  that,  so  we  had  it  all 
round,  and  then  my  man  and  I took 
Tally-ho  Thompson  safe  to  the  rail- 
road, and  I carried  him  to  London  that 
night.  He  was  afterwards  acquitted, 
on  account  of  a defect  in  the  evidence  ; 
and  I understand  he  always  praises  me 
up  to  the  skies,  and  says  I ’m  one  of  the 
best  of  men.” 

This  story  coming  to  a termination 
amidst  general  applause,  Inspector 
Wield,  after  a little  grave  smoking, 
fixes  his  eye  on  his  host,  and  thus 
delivers  himself : — 

“ It  wasn’t  a bad  plant  that  of  mine, 
on  Fikey,  the  man  accused  of  forging 
the  Sou’western  Railway  debentures 
— it  was  only  t’other  day  — because 
the  reason  why?  I ’ll  tell  you. 

“I  had  information  that  Fikey  and 
his  brother  kept  a factory  over  yonder 
there,  — indicating  any  region  on  the 
Surrey  side  of  the  river,  — “where  he 
bought  second-hand  carriages ; so  after 
I ’d  tried  in  vain  to  get  hold  of  him  by 
other  means,  I wrote  him  a letter  in  an 
assumed  name,  saying  that  I ’d  got  a 
horse  and  shay  to  dispose  of,  and  would 
drive  down  next  day  that  he  might  view 
the  lot,  and  make  an  offer, — very  reason- 
able it  was,  I said,  — a reg’lar  bargain. 
Straw  and  me  then  went  off  to  a friend 
of  mine  that ’s  in  the  livery  and  job 
business,  and  hired  a turnout  for  the 
day,  a precious  smart  turnout  it  was,  — 
quite  a slap-up  thing  ! Down  we  drove, 
accordingly,  with  a friend  (who ’s  not  in 
the  Force  himself);  and  leaving  my 
friend  in  the  shay  near  a public-house, 
to  take  care  of  the  horse,  we  went  to 
the  factory,  which  was  some  little  way 
off.  In  the  factory  there  was  a number 
of  strong  fellows  at  work,  and  after 
reckoning  ’em  up,  it  was  clear  to  me 
that  it  wouldn’t  do  to  try  it  on  there. 
They  were  too  many  for  us.  We  must 
get  our  man  out  of  doors.  ‘ Mr.  Fikey 


THE  DETECTIVE  POLICE. 


411 


at  home?  ’ * No,  he  ain’t.’  * Expected 

home  soon?’  ‘Why,  no,  not  soon.’ 
‘Ah!  is  his  brother  here?’  */’ m his 
brother.’  ‘ O well,  this  is  an  ill-con- 
wenience,  this  is.  I wrote  him  a letter 
yesterday,  saying  I ’d  got  a little  turn- 
out to  dispose  of,  and  I ’ve  took  the 
trouble  to  bring  the  turnout  down,  a’ 
purpose,  and  now  he  ain’t  in  the  way.’ 
4 No,  he  ain’t  in  the  way.  You  could  n’t 
make  it  convenient  to  call  again,  could 
you?’  ‘Why,  no,  I couldn’t.  I want 
to  sell ; that ’s  the  fact  ; and  I can’t  put 
it  off.  Could  you  find  him  anywheres?  ’ 
At  first  he  said,  No,  he  couldn’t,  and 
then  he  wras  n’t  sure  about  it,  and  then 
he ’d  go  and  try.  So  at  last  he  went 
up  stairs,  where  there  was  a sort  of  loft, 
and  presently  down  comes  my  man 
himself,  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

“ ‘ Well,’  he  says,  ‘this  seems  to  be 
rayther  a pressing  matter  of  yours.’ 
‘Yes,’  I says,  ‘it  is  rayther  a pressing 
matter,  and  you  ’ll  find  it  a bargain,  — 
dirt-cheap.’  ‘ I ain’t  in  partickler  want 
of  a bargain  just  now,’  he  says,  ‘but 
where  is  it?’  ‘ Why,’  I says,  ‘the  turn- 
out’s just  outside.  Come  and  look  at 
it.’  He  hasn’t  any  suspicions,  and 
away  we  go.  And  the  first  thing  that 
happens  is,  that  the  horse  runs  away 
with  my  friend  (who  knows  no  more  of 
driving  than  a child)  when  he  takes  a 
little  trot  along  the  road  to  show  his 
paces.  You  never  saw  such  a game  in 
your  life  ! 

“ When  the  bolt  is  over,  and  the  turn- 
out has  come  to  a standstill  again, 
Fikey  walks  round  and  round  it  as  grave 
as  a judge,  — me  too.  ‘ There,  sir  ! ’ I 
says.  ‘There’s  a neat  thing!’  ‘It 
ain’t  a bad  style  of  thing,’  he  says.  ‘ I 
believe  you,’  says  I.  ‘And  there’s  a 
horse  ! ’ — for  I saw  him  looking  at  it. 

‘ Rising  eight ! ’ I says,  rubbing  his  fore 
legs.  (Bless  you,  there  ain’t  a man  in 
the  world  knows  less  of  horses  than  I 
do,  but  . I ’d  heard  my  friend  at  the 
Livery  Stables  say  he  was  eight  year 
old,  so  I says,  as  knowing  as  possible 
‘ Rising  eight.’)  ‘ Rising  eight,  is  he?  ’ 
says  he.  ‘ Rising  eight,’  says  I. 

‘ Well,’  he  says,  ‘what  do  you  want  for 
it  ?’  ‘ Why,  the  first  and  last  figure  for 

the  whole  concern  is  five-and-twenty 
pound  ! ’ ‘ That ’s  very  cheap ! ’ he  says, 


looking  at  me.  ‘ Ain’t  it  ? ’ I says.  ‘ I 
told  you  it  was  a bargain  ! Now,  with- 
out any  higgling  and  haggling  about  it, 
what  I want  is  to  sell,  and  that ’s  my 
price.  Further,  I’ll  make  it  easy  to 
you,  and  take  half  the  money  down, 
and  you  can  do  a bit  of  stiff*  for  the 
balance.  ’ 4 W ell, ’ he  says  again,  4 that ’s 
very  cheap.’  ‘ I believe  you,’  says  I; 
‘get  in  and  try  it,  and  you’ll  buy  it. 
Come  ! take  a trial  ! ’ 

“ Ecod,  he  gets  in,  and  we  get  in, 
and  we  drive  along  the  road,  to  show 
him  to  one  of  the  railway  clerks  that 
was  hid  in  the  public-house  window  to 
identify  him.  But  the  clerk  was  both- 
ered, and  did  n’t  know  whether  it  was 
him,  or  was  n’t,  — because  the  reason 
why  ? I ’ll  tell  you,  — on  account  of 
his  having  shaved  his  whiskers.  ‘It’s 
a clever  little  horse,’  he  says,  ‘ and  trots 
well  ; and  the  shay  runs  light.’  4 Not  a 
doubt  about  it,’  I says.  ‘And  now, 
Mr.  Fikey,  I may  as  well  make  it  all 
right,  without  wasting  any  more  of  your 
time.  The  fact  is,  I ’m  Inspector 
Wield,  and  you  ’re  my  prisoner.’  ‘ You 
don’t  mean  that  ? ’ he  says.  ‘ I do,  in- 
deed.’ ‘Then  burn  my  body,’  says 
Fikey,  ‘ if  this  ain’t  too  bad  ! ’ 

“ Perhaps  you  never  saw  a man  so 
knocked  over  with  surprise.  ‘ I hope 
you ’ll  let  me  have  my  coat?’  he  says. 
‘By  all  means.’  ‘Well,  then,  let’s 
drive  to  the  factory.’  4 Why,  not  exact- 
ly that,  I think,’  said  I ; ‘ I ’ve  been 
there,  once  before,  to-day.  Suppose 
we  send  for  it.’  He  saw  it  was  no  go, 
so  he  sent  for  it,  and  put  it  on,  and  we 
drove  him  up  to  London,  comforta- 
ble.” 

This  reminiscence  is  in  the  height  of 
its  success,  when  a general  proposal 
is  made  to  the  fresh  - complexioned, 
smooth-faced  officer,  with  the  strange 
air  of  simplicity,  to  tell  the  “ Butcher’s 
Story.” 

The  fresh-complexioned,  smooth- 
faced officer,  with  the-  strange  air  of 
simplicity,  began,  with  a rustic  smile, 
and  in  a soft,  wheedling  tone  of  voice, 
to  relate  the  Butcher’s  Story,  thus:  — 

“ It ’s  just  about  six  years  ago,  now, 
since  information  was  given  at  Scotland 

* Give  a bill. 


412 


THE  DETECTIVE  POLICE. 


Yard  of  there  being  extensive  robberies 
of  lawns  and  silks  going  on,  at  some 
wholesale  houses  in  the  City.  Direc- 
tions were  given  for  the  business  being 
looked  into  ; and  Straw  and  Fendall 
and  me.  we  were  all  in  it.” 

“ When  you  received  your  instruc- 
tions,” said  we,  “you  went  away,  and 
held  a sort  of  Cabinet  Council  to- 
gether ! ” 

The  smooth-faced  officer  coaxingly 
replied,  “Ye-es.  Just  so.  We  turned 
it  over  among  ourselves  a good  deal. 
It  appeared,  when  we  weftt  into  it,  that 
the  goods  were  sold  by  the  receivers  ex- 
traordinarily cheap, — much  cheaper  than 
they  could  have  been  if  they  had  been 
honestly  come  by.  The  receivers  were 
in  the  trade,  and  kept  capital  shops,  — 
establishments  of  the  first  respectability, 
— one  of  ’em  at  the  West  End,  one 
down  in  Westminster.  After  a lot  of 
watching  and  inquiry,  and  this  and  that 
among  ourselves,  we  found  that  the  job 
was  managed,  and  the  purchases  of  the 
stolen  goods  made,  at  a little  public- 
house  near  Smithfield,  down  by  Saint 
Bartholomew’s;  where  the  Warehouse 
Porters,  who  were  the  thieves,  took  ’em 
for  that  purpose,  don’t  you  see  ? and 
made  appointments  to  meet  the  people 
that  went  between  themselves  and  the 
receivers.  This  public-house  was  prin- 
cipally used  by  journeymen  butchers 
from  the  country,  out  of  place,  and 
in  want  of  situations  ; so  what  did  we 
do,  but  — ha,  ha,  ha  ! — we  agreed  that 
I should  be  dressed  up  like  a butcher 
myself,  and  go  and  live  there  ! ” 

Never,  surely,  was  a faculty  of  obser- 
vation better  brought  to  bear  upon  a 
purpose  than  that  which  picked  out 
this  officer  for  the  part.  Nothing  in  all 
creation  could  have  suited  him  better. 
Even  while  he  spoke,  he  became  a 
greasy,  sleepy,  shy,  good-natured, 
chuckle-headed,  unsuspicious,  and  con- 
fiding young  butcher.  His  very  hair 
seemed  to  have  suet  in  it,  as  he  made  it 
smooth  upon  his  head,  and  his  fresh 
complexion  to  be  lubricated  by  large 
quantities  of  animal  food. 

“So  I — ha,  ha,  ha!”  (always  with 
the  confiding  snigger  of  the  foolish  young 
butcher)  — “ so  I dressed  myself  in 
the  regular  way,  made  up  a little  bun- 


dle of  clothes,  and  went  to  the  public- 
house,  and  asked  if  I could  have  a lodg- 
ing there?  They  says,  ‘Yes,  you  can 
have  a lodging  here,’  and  I got  a bed- 
room, and  settled  myself  down  in  the 
tap.  There  was  a number  of  people 
about  the  place,  and  coming  backwards 
and  forwards  to  the  house ; and  first 
one  says,  and  then  another  says,  ‘Are 
you  from  the  country,  young  man  ? ’ 
‘Yes,’  I says,  ‘ I am.  I ’m  come  out  of 
Northamptonshire,  and  I ’m  quite  lone- 
ly here,  for  I don’t  know  London  at  all, 
and  it ’s  such  a mighty  big  town  ? ’ ‘It 
is  a big  town,’  they  says.  ‘ O,  it’s  a 
very  big  town  ! ’ I says.  ‘ Really  and 
truly  I never  was  in  such  a town.  It 
quite  confuses  of  me  ! ’ — and  all  that, 
you  know. 

“When  some  of  the  journeymen 
butchers  that  used  the  house  found 
that  I wanted  a place,  they  says,  * O, 
we  ’ll  get  you  a place  ! ’ And  they  act- 
ually took  me  to  a sight  of  places,  in 
Newgate  Market,  Newport  Market, 
Clare,  Carnaby, — I don’t  know  where 
all.  But  the  wages  was  — ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

— was  not  sufficient,  and  I never  could 
suit  myself,  don’t  you  see  ? Some  of 
the  queer  frequenters  of  the  house  w ere 
a little  suspicious  of  me  at  first,  and  I 
was  obliged  to  be  very  cautious  indeed 
how  I communicated  with  Straw  or 
Fendall.  Sometimes,  when  I went  out, 
pretending  to  stop  and  look  into  the 
shop  windows,  and  just  casting  my  eye 
round,  I used  to  see  some  of  ’em  follow- 
ing me  ; but,  being  perhaps  better  ac- 
customed than  they  thought  for  to  that 
sort  of  thing,  I used  to  lead  ’em  on  as 
far  as  I thought  necessary  or  convenient, 

— sometimes  a long  way, — and  then 
turn  sharp  round,  and  meet  ’em,  and 
say,  ‘ O dear,  how  glad  I am  to  come 
upon  you  so  fortunate  ! This  London ’s 
such  a place,  I ’m  blowed  if  I ain’t  lost 
again  ! ’ And  then  we ’d  go  back  all 
together,  to  the  public-house,  and — ha, 
ha,  ha  ! — and  smoke  our  pipes,  don’t 
you  see? 

“They  w'ere  very  attentive  to  me,  I 
am  sure.  It  was  a common  thing,  while 
I was  living  there,  for  some  of  ’em  to 
take  me  out,  and  show  me  London. 
They  showed  me  the  Prisons,  — showed 
me  Newgate,  — and  when  they  showed 


THE  DETECTIVE  POLICE. 


4i3 


me  Newgate,  I stops  at  the  place  where 
the  Porters  pitch  their  loads,  and  says, 
* O dear,  is  this  where  they  hang  the 
men  ! O Lor  ! ’ ‘ That  ! * they  says, 

‘ what  a simple  cove  he  is  ! That  ain’t 
it ! ’ And  then  they  pointed  out  which 
•was  it,  and  I says,  ‘ Lor?  ’ and  they  says, 

‘ Now  you  ’ll  know  it  agen,  won’t  you  ? ’ 
And  I said  I thought  I should  if  I 
tried  hard,  — and  I assure  you  I kept  a 
sharp  lookout  for  the  City  Police  when 
we  were  out  in  this  way,  for  if  any  of 
’em  had  happened  to  know  me,  and  had 
6poke  to  me,  it  would  have  been  all  up 
in  a minute.  However,  by  good  luck 
such  a thing  never  happened,  and  all 
went  on  quiet ; though  the  difficulties  I 
had  in  communicating  with  my  brother 
officers  were  quite  extraordinary. 

“ The  stolen  goods  that  were  brought 
to  the  public-house  by  the  Warehouse 
Porters  were  always  disposed  of  in  a 
back  parlor.  For  a long  time,  I never 
could  get  into  this  parlor,  or  see  what 
was  done  there.  As  I sat  smoking  my 
pipe,  like  an  innocent  young  chap,  by 
the  tap-room  fire,  I ’d  hear  some  of  the 
parties  to  the  robbery,  as  they  came  in 
and  out,  say  softly  to  the  landlord, 

‘ Who ’s  that?  What  does  he  do  here ? ’ 

‘ Bless  your  soul,’  says  the  landlord, 

‘ he ’s  only  a ’ — ha,  ha,  ha  ! — ‘ he ’s 
only  a green  young  fellow  from  the 
country,  as  is  looking  for  a butcher’s 
sitiwation.  Don’t  mind  him  ! ’ So,  in 
course  of  time,  they  were  so  convinced 
of  my  being  green,  and  got  to  be  so 
accustomed  to  me,  that  I was  as  free  of 
the  parlor  as  any  of  ’em,  and  I havd 
seen  as  much  as  seventy  pounds’  worth 
of  fine  lawn  sold  there,  in  one  night, 
that  was  stolen  from  a warehouse  in 
Friday  Street.  After  the  sale  the  buy- 
ers always  stood  treat,  — hot  supper,  or 
dinner,  or  what  not,  — and  they ’d  say 
on  those  occasions,  ‘ Come  on,  Butcher  ! 
Put  your  best  leg  foremost,  young ’un, 
and  walk  into  it  ! ’ Which  I used  to 
do,  and  hear,  at  table,  all  manner  of 
particulars  that  it  was  very  important 
for  us  Detectives  to  know. 

“ This  went  on  for  ten  weeks.  I 
lived  in  the  public-house  all  the  time, 
and  never  was  out  of  the  Butcher’s 
dress,  — except  in  bed.  At  last,  when 
I had  followed  seven  of  the  thieves,  and 


set  ’em  to  rights,  — that ’s  an  expression 
of  ours,  don’t  you  see,  by^  which  I mean 
to  say  that  I traced  ’em,  and  found  out 
where  the  robberies  were  done,  and  all 
about  ’em,  — Straw  and  Fendall  and  I 
gave  one  another  the  office,  and  at  a 
time  agreed  upon,  a descent  was  made 
upon  the  public-house,  and  the  appre- 
hensions effected.  One  of  the  first 
things  the  officers  did  was  to  collar  me, 
— for  the  parties  to  the  robbery  weren’t 
to  suppose  yet  that  I was  anything  but 
a Butcher,  — on  which  the  landlord  cries 
out,  ‘Don’t  take  him ,’  he  says,  ‘what- 
ever you  do  ! He ’s  only  a poor  young 
chap  from  the  country,  and  butter 
wouldn’t  melt  in  his  mouth!’  How- 
ever, they  — ha,  ha,  ha  ! — they  took 
me,  and  pretended  to  search  my  bed- 
room, where  nothing  \yas  found  but  an 
old  fiddle  belonging  to  the  landlord,, 
that  had  got  there  somehow  or  another. 
But  it  entirely  changed  the  landlord’s* 
opinion,  for  when  it  was  produced,  he 
says,  ‘ My  fiddle  ! The  Butcher ’s  a 
pur-loiner ! I give  him  into  custody 
for  the  robbery  of  a musical  instru- 
ment ! ’ 

“ The  man  that  had  stolen  the  goods 
in  Friday  Street  was  not  taken  yet.  He 
had  told  me,  in  confidence,  that  he  had 
his  suspicions  there  was  something 
wrong  (on  account  of  the  City  Police 
having  captured  one  of  the  party),  and 
that  he  was  going  to  make  himself 
scarce.  I asked  him,  ‘ Where  do  you 
mean  to  go,  Mr.  Shepherdson  ? ’ ‘ Why, 
Butcher,’  says  he,  ‘the  Setting  Moon, 
in  the  Commercial  Road,  is  a snug 
house,  and  I shall  hang  out  there  for  a 
time.  I shall  call  myself  Simpson, 
which  appears  to  me  to  be  a modest 
sort  of  a name.  Perhaps  you’ll  give  us 
a look  in,  Butcher?’  ‘Well,’  says  I, 

‘ I think  1 will  give  you  a call,’  — which 
I fully  intended,  don’t  you  see,  because, 
of  course,  he  was  to  be  taken  ! I went 
over  to  the  Setting  Moon  next  day,  with 
a brother  officer,  and  asked  at  the  bar 
for  Simpson.  They  pointed  out  his 
room,  up  stairs.  As  we  were  going  up, 
he  looks  down  over  the  banisters,  and 
calls  out,  ‘Halloa,  Butcher!  is  that 
you?’  ‘Yes,  it’s  me.  How  do  you 
find  yourself?’  ‘Bobbish,’  he  says; 

‘ but  who ’s  that  with  you ? ’ ‘ It ’s  only 


THE  DETECTIVE  POLICE . 


414 

a young  man,  that’s  a friend  of  mine,’ 
I says.  ‘ Come  along,  then,’  says  he  ; 
‘ any  friend  of  the  Butcher’s  is  as  wel- 
come as  the  Butcher!’  So  I made 
my  friend  acquainted  with  him,  and  we 
took  him  into  custody. 

“ You  have  no  idea,  sir,  what  a sight 
it  was,  in  Court,  when  they  first  knew 
that  I was  n’t  a Butcher,  after  all  ! I 
wasn’t  produced  at  the  first  examina- 
tion, when  there  was  a remand  ; but  I 
was  at  the  second.  And  when  I stepped 
into  the  box,  in  full  police  uniform,  and 
the  whole  party  saw  how  they  had  been 
done,  actually  a groan  of  horror  and  dis- 
may proceeded  from  ’em  in  the  dock  ! 

“ At  the  Old  Bailey,  when  their  trials 
came  on,  Mr.  Clarkson  was  engaged  for 
the  defence,  and  he  could  n't  make  out 
how  it  was  about  the  Butcher.  He 
thought,  all  along,  it  was  a real  Butcher. 
When  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution 
said,  ‘ I will  now  call  before  you,  gen- 
tlemen, the  Police-officer,’  meaning 
myself,  Mr.  Clarkson  says,  ‘Why  Po- 
lice-officer ? Why  more  Police-officers  ? 
I don’t  want  Police.  We  have  had  a 
great  deal  too  much  of  the  Police.  I 
want  the  Butcher  ! ’ However,  sir,  he 
had  the  Butcher  and  the  Police-officer, 
both  in  one.  Out  of  seven  prisoners 
committed  for  frial,  five  were  found 
guilty,  and  some  of  ’em  were  transport- 
ed. The  respectable  firm  at  the  West 
End  got  a term  of  imprisonment ; and 
that ’s  the  Butcher’s  Story  ! ” 

The  story  done,  the  chuckle-headed 
Butcher  again  resolved  himself  into  the 
smooth-faced  Detective.  But  he  was 
so  extremely  tickled  by  their  having 
taken  him  about,  when  he  was  that 
Dragon  in  disguise,  to  show  him  Lon- 
don, that  he  could  not  help  reverting  to 
that  point  in  his  narrative  ; and  gently 
repeating  with  the  Butcher  snigger, 
“ ‘ O dear,’  I says,  ‘ is  that  where  they 
hang  the  men  ? O Lor  ! ’ ‘ That  ! ’ 

says  they.  ‘What  a simple  cove  he 
is!  ’ ” 

It  being  now  late,  and  the  party  very 
modest  in  their  fear  of  being  too  diffuse, 
there  were  some  tokens  of  separation ; 
when  Sergeant  Domton,  the  soldierly- 
looking  man,  said,  looking  round  him 
with  a smile,  — 

“ Before  we  break  up,  sir,  perhaps 


you  might  have  some  amusement  in 
hearing  of  the  Adventures  of  a Carpet 
Bag.  They  are  very  short,  and,  I think, 
curious.” 

We  welcomed  the  Carpet  Bag,  as 
cordially  as  Mr.  Shepherdson  welcomed 
the  false  Butcher  at  the  Setting  Moon. 
Sergeant  Domton  proceeded. 

“In  1847,  I was  despatched  to  Chat- 
ham, in  search  of  one  Mesheck,  a Jew. 
He  had  been  carrying  on,  pretty  heavily, 
in  the  bill-stealing  way,  getting  accept- 
ances from  young  men  of  good  con- 
nections (in  the  army  chiefly),  on  pre- 
tence of  discount,  and  bolting  with  the 
same. 

“ Mesheck  was  off,  before  I got  to 
Chatham.  All  I could  learn  about  him 
was,  that  he  had  gone,  probably  to  Lon- 
don, and  had  with  him  — a Carpet 
Bag. 

“ I came  back  to  town,  by  the  last 
train  from  Blackwall,  and  made  inquir- 
ies concerning  a Jew  passenger  with  — 
a Carpet  Bag. 

“ The  office  was  shut  up,  it  being  the 
last  train.  There  were  only  two  or 
three  porters  left.  Looking  after  a Jew 
with  a Carpet  Bag,  on  the  Blackwall 
Railway,  which  was  then  the  high-road 
to  a great  Military  Depot,  was  worse 
than  looking  after  a needle  in  a hay- 
rick. But  it  happened  that  one  of  these 
porters  had  carried,  for  a certain  Jew, 
to  a certain  public-house,  a certain  — 
Carpet  Bag. 

“ I went  to  the  public-house,  but 
the  Jew  had  only  left  his  luggage  there 
for  a few  hours,  and  had  called  for  it  in 
a cab,  and  taken  it  away.  I put  such 
questions  there,  and  to  the  porter,  as  I 
thought  prudent,  and  got  at  this  de- 
scription of — the  Carpet  Bag. 

“ It  was  a bag  which  had,  on  one  side 
of  it,  worked  in  worsted,  a green  parrot 
on  a stand.  A green  parrot  on  a stand 
was  the  means  by  which  to  identify  that 
— Carpet  Bag. 

“ I traced  Mesheck,  by  means  of  this 
green  parrot  on  a stand,  to  Cheltenham, 
to  Birmingham,  to  Liverpool,  to  the 
Atlantic  Ocean.  At  Liverpool  he  was 
too  many  for  me.  He  had  gone  to  the 
United  States,  and  I gave  up  all 
thoughts  of  Mesheck,  and  likewise  of 
his  — Carpet  Bag. 


THE  DETECTIVE  POLICE. 


4i5 


“Many  months  afterwards  — near  a 
year  afterwards  — there  was  a bank 
in  Ireland  robbed  of  seven  thousand 
pounds  by  a person  of  the  name  of 
Doctor  Dundey,  who  escaped  to  Ameri- 
ca, from  which  country  some  of  the 
stolen  notes  came  home.  He  was  sup- 
osed  to  have  bought  a farm  in  New 
ersey.  Under  proper  management, 
that  estate  could  be  seized  and  sold, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  parties  he  had  de- 
frauded. I was  sent  off  to  America  for 
this  purpose. 

“ I landed  at  Boston.  I went  on  to 
New  York.  I found  that  he  had  lately 
changed  New  York  paper-money  for 
New  Jersey  paper-money,  and  had 
banked  cash  in  New  Brunswick.  To 
take  this  Doctor  Dundey,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  entrap  him  into  the  State  of 
New  York,  which  required  a deal  of 
artifice  and  trouble.  At  one  time  he 
could  n’t  be  drawn  into  an  appointment. 
At  another  time,  he  appointed  to -come 
to  meet  me  and  a New  York  officer  on 
a pretext  I made  ; and  then  his  chil- 
dren had  the  measles.  At  last  he  came, 

f>er  steamboat,  and  I took  him  and 
odged  him  in  a New  York  prison 
called  the  Tombs ; which  I dare  say 
you  know,  sir?” 

Editorial  acknowledgment  to  that 
effect. 

“ I went  to  the  Tombs,  on  the  morn- 
ing after  his  capture,  to  attend  the 
examination  before  the  magistrate.  I 
was  passing  through  the  magistrate’s 
private  room,  when,  happening  to  look 
round  me  to  take  notice  of  the  place, 
as  we  generally  have  a habit  of  doing, 

I clapped  my  eyes,  in  one  corner,  on 
a — Carpet  Bag. 

“What  did  I see  upon  that  Carpet 
Bag,  if  you  ’ll  believe  me,  but  a green 
parrot  on  a stand,  as  large  as  life  ! 

“ ‘ That  Carpet  Bag,  with  the  repre- 
sentation of  a green  parrot  on  a stand,’ 
said  I,  ‘belongs  to  an  English  Jew, 
named  Aaron  Mesheck,  and  to  no  other 
man,  alive  or  dead  ! ’ 

“ I give  you  my  word,  the  New  York 
Police-officers  were  doubled  up  with 
surprise. 

“ ‘ How  do  you  ever  come  to  know 
that  ? ’ said  they. 

“ ‘ I think  I ought  to  know  that  green 


parrot  by  this  time,’  said  I ; ‘ for  I 
have  had  as  pretty  a dance  after  that 
bird,  at  home,  as  ever  I had,  in  all 
my  life  ! ’ ” 

“And  was  it  Mesheck’s?”  we  sub- 
missively inquired. 

“ Was  it,  sir?  Of  course  it  was  ! He 
was  in  custody  for  another  offence  in 
that  very  identical  Tombs  at  that  very 
identical  time.  And,  more  than  that  ! 
Some  memoranda,  relating  to  the  fraud 
for  which  I had  vainly  endeavored  to 
take  him,  were  found  to  be,  at  that 
moment,  lying  in  that  very  same  indi- 
vidual — Carpet  Bag  ! ” 

Such  are  the  curious  coincidences  and 
such  is  the  peculiar  ability,  always 
sharpening  and  being,  improved  by 
practice,  and  always  adapting  itself  to 
every  variety  of  circumstances,  and  op- 
posing itself  to  every  new  device  that 
perverted  ingenuity  can  invent,  for 
which  this  important  social  branch  of 
the  public  service  is  remarkable  ! For- 
ever on  the  watch,  with  their  wits 
stretched  to  the  utmost,  these  officers 
have,  from  day  to  day  and  year  to  year, 
to  set  themselves  against  every  novelty 
of  trickery  and  dexterity  that  the  com- 
bined imaginations  of  all  the  lawless  ras- 
cals in  England  can  devise,  and  to  keep 
pace  with  every  such  invention  that 
comes  out.  In  the  Courts  of  Justice, 
the  materials  of  thousands  of  such  sto- 
ries as  we  have  narrated  — often  elevat- 
ed into  the  marvellous  and  romantic 
by  the  circumstances  of  the  case  — are 
dryly  compressed  into  the  set  phrase, 
“ In  consequence  of  information  I re- 
ceived, I did  so  and  so.”  Suspicion 
was  to  be  directed,  by  careful  inference 
and  deduction,  upon  the  right  person  ; 
the  right  person  was  to  be  taken,  wher- 
ever he  had  gone,  or  whatever  he  was 
doing  to  avoid  detection  ; he  is  taken, 
there  he  is  at  the  bar  ; that  is  enough. 
From  information  I,  the  officer,  re- 
ceived, I did  it ; and,  according  to 
the  custom  in  these  cases,  I say  no 
more. 

These  games  of  chess,  played  with 
live  pieces,  are  played  before  small  au- 
diences, and  are  chronicled  nowhere. 
The  interest  of  the  game  supports  the 


4x6 


THREE  “ DETECTIVE ” ANECDOTES. 


player.  Its  results  are  enough  for  Jus- 
tice. To  compare  great  things  with 
small,  suppose  Leverrier  or  Adams 
informing  the  public  that  from  informa- 
tion he  had  received  he  had  discovered 
a new  planet ; or  Columbus  informing 
the  public  of  his  day  that  from  informa- 
tion he  had  received  he  had  discovered 
a new  continent  ; so  the  Detectives  in- 
form it  that  they  have  discovered  a new 


fraud  or  an  old  offender,  and  the  pro- 
cess is  unknown. 

Thus,  at  midnight,  closed  the  pro- 
ceedings of  our  curious  and  interesting 
party.  But  one  other  circumstance 
finally  wound  up  the  evening,  after  our 
Detective  guests  had  left  us.  One  of 
the  sharpest  among  them,  and  the  offi- 
cer best  acquainted  with  the  Swell  Mob, 
had  his  pocket  picked,  going  home  1 


THREE  “DETECTIVE”  ANECDOTES. 


I.— THE  PAIR  OF  GLOVES. 

“It’s  a singler  story,  sir,”  said  In- 
spector Wield,  of  the  Detective  Police, 
who,  in  company  with  Sergeants  Dorn- 
ton  and  Mith,  paid  us  another  twilight 
visit,  one  July  evening;  “and  I’ve 
been  thinking  you  might  like  to  know 
it 

“ It ’s  concerning  the  murder  of  the 
young  woman,  Eliza  Grimwood,  some 
years  ago,  over  in  the  Waterloo  Road. 
She  was  commonly  called  The  Count- 
ess, because  of  her  handsome  appear- 
ance and  her  proud  way  of  carrying  of 
herself ; and  when  I saw  the  poor 
Countess  (I  had  known  her  well  to 
speak  to)  lying  dead,  with  her  throat 
cut,  on  the  floor  of  her  bedroom, 
you  ’ll  believe  me  that  a variety  of 
reflections  calculated  to  make  a man 
rather  low  in  his  spirits  came  into  my 
head. 

“That’s  neither  here  nor  there.  I 
went  to  the  house  the  morning  after  the 
murder,  and  examined  the  body,  and 
made  a general  observation  of  the  bed- 
room where  it  was.  Turning  down  the 
pillow  of  the  bed  with  my  hand,  I 
found,  underneath  it,  a pair  of  gloves. 
A pair  of  gentleman’s  dress  gloves,  very 
dirty,  and  inside  the  lining  the  letters 
Tr,  and  a cross. 

v Well,  sir.  I took  them  gloves  away, 
and  I showed  ’em  to  the  magistrate, 


over  at  Union  Hall,  before  whom  the 
case  was.  He  says,  | Wield,’  he  says, 
‘ there  ’s  no  doubt  this  is  a discovery 
that  may  lead  to  something  very  impor- 
tant ; and  what  you  have  got  to  do, 
Wield,  is,  to  find  out  the  owner  of  these 
gloves.  ’ 

“ I was  of  the  same  opinion,  of  course, 
and  I went  at  it  immediately.  I looked 
at  the  gloves  pretty  narrowly,  and  it 
was  my  opinion  that  they  had  been 
cleaned.  There  was  a smell  of  sulphur 
and  rosin  about  ’em,  you  know,  which 
cleaned  gloves  usually  have,  more  or 
less.  I took  ’em  over  to  a friend  of 
mine  at  Kennington,  who  was  in  that 
line,  and  I put  it  to  him.  ‘What  do 
you  say  now  ? Have  these  gloves  been 
cleaned?’  ‘These  gloves  have  been 
cleaned,’  says  he.  ‘ Have  you  any  idea 
who  cleaned  them?’  says  I.  ‘Not  at 
all,’  says  he  ; ‘ I’ve  a very  distinct  idea 
who  didn't  clean  ’em,  and  that’s  my- 
self. But  I ’ll  tell  you  what,  Wield, 
there  ain’t  above  eight  or  nine  reg’lar 
glove-cleaners  in  London,’  — there  were 
not,  at  that  time,  it  seems,  — ‘ and  I 
think  I can  give  you  their  addresses, 
and  you  may  find  out,  by  that  means, 
who  did  clean  ’em.’  Accordingly,  he 
gave  me  the  directions,  and  1 went 
here,  and  I went  there,  and  I looked 
up  this  man,  and  I looked  up  that  man  ; 
but,  though  they  all  agreed  that  the 
gloves  had  been  cleaned,  I couldn’t 


THREE  “ DETECTIVE ” ANECDOTES . 


4i7 


find  the  man,  woman,  or  child  that  had 
cleaned  that  aforesaid  pair  of  gloves. 

“What  with  this  person  not  being  at 
home,  and  that  person  being  expected 
home  in  the  afternoon,  and  so  forth,  the 
inquiry  took  me  three  days.  On  the 
evening  of  the  third  day,  coming  over 
Waterloo  Bridge  from  the  Surrey  side 
of  the  river,  quite  beat,  and  very  much 
vexed  and  disappointed,  I thought  I ’d 
have  a shilling’s  worth  of  entertainment 
at  the  Lyceum  Theatre  to  freshen  my- 
self up.  So  I went  into  the  Pit,  at  half- 
price,  and  I sat  myself  down  next  to  a 
very  quiet,  modest  sort  of  young  man. 
Seeing  I was  a stranger  (which  I 
thought  it  just  as  well  to  appear  to  be) 
he  told  me  the  names  of  the  actors  on 
the  stage,  and  we  got  into  conversation. 
When  the  play  was  over,  we  came  out 
together,  and  I said,  ‘ We  ’ve  been  very 
companionable  and  agreeable,  and  per- 
haps you  would  n’t  object  to  a drain  ? ’ 
‘Well,  you  ’re  very  good,’  says  he  ; ‘ I 
shouldn't  object  to  a drain.’  Accord- 
ingly, we  went  to  a public-house,  near 
the  Theatre,  sat  ourselves  down  in  a 
quiet  room  up-stairs  on  the  first  floor, 
and  called  for  a pint  of  half-and-half 
apiece  and  a pipe. 

“Well,  sir,  we  put  our  pipes  aboard, 
and  we  drank  our  half-and-half,  and  sat 
a talking,  very  sociably,  when  the  young 
man  says,  ‘You  must  excuse  me  stop- 
ping very  long,’  he  says,  ‘because  I ’m 
forced  to  go  home  in  good  time.  I must 
be  at  work  all  night.’  ‘At  work  all 
night?’  says  I.  ‘You  ain’t  a baker?’ 

* No,’  he  says,  laughing,  ‘ I ain’t  a bak- 
er.’ ‘I  thought  not,’  says  I,  ‘you 
have  n’t  the  looks  of  a baker.’  ‘No,’ 
says  he,  ‘ I ’m  a glove-cleaner.’ 

“ I never  was  more  astonished  in  my 
life,  than  when  I heard  them  words 
come  out  of  his  lips.  ‘ You  ’re  a glove- 
cleaner,  are.  you?’  says  I.  ‘Yes,’  he 
says,  ‘I  am.’  ‘Then,  perhaps,’  says 
I,  taking  the  gloves  out  of  my  pocket, 
‘you  can  tell  me  who  cleaned  this 
pair  of  gloves?  It’s  a rum  story,’  I 
says.  ‘ I was  dining  over  at  Lambeth, 
the  other  day,  at  a free  and  easy  — 
quite  promiscuous  — with  a public  com- 
pany— when  some  gentleman,  he  left 
these  gloves  behind  him  ! Another 
gentleman  and  me,  you  see,  we  laid  a 


wager  of  a sovereign,  that  I would  n’t 
find  out  who  they  belonged  to.  I ’ve 
spent  as  much  as  seven  shillings  al- 
ready, in  trying  to  discover;  but  if 
you  could  help  me,  I ’d  stand  another 
seven  and  welcome.  You  see  there ’s 
Tr  and  a cross,  inside.’  see,’  he 
says.  ‘ Bless  you,  / know  these  gloves 
very  well  ! I ’ve  seen  dozens  of  pairs 
belonging  to  the  same  party.’  ‘ No?’ 
says  I.  ‘Yes,’  says  he.  ‘Then  you 
know  who  cleaned  ’em  ? ’ says  I.  ‘ Rath- 
er so,’  says  he.  ‘ My  father  cleaned 
’em.’ 

“ ‘ Where  does  your  father  live  ?’  says 
I.  ‘Just  round  the  corner,’  says  the 
young  man,  ‘ near  Exeter  Street,  here. 
He’ll  tell  you  who  they  belong  to, 
directly.’  ‘Would  you  come  round 
with  me  now?’  says  I.  ‘Certainly,’ 
says  he,  ‘ but  you  need  n’t  tell  my  fa- 
ther that  you  found  me  at  the  play, 
you  know,  because  he  might  n’t  like 
it.’  ‘All  right!’  We  went  round  to 
the  place,  and  there  we  found  an  old 
man  in  a white  apron,  with  two  or  three 
daughters,  all  rubbing  and  cleaning 
away  at  lots  of  gloves,  in  a front  par- 
lor. ‘ O father ! ’ says  the  young 
man,  ‘ here ’s  a person  been  and  made 
a bet  about  the  ownership  of  a pair 
of  gloves,  and  I ’ve  told  him  you  can 
settle  it.’  ‘Good  evening,  sir,’  says 
I to  the  old  gentleman.  ‘ Here ’s  the 
gloves  your  son  speaks  of.  Letters  Tr, 
you  see,  and  a cross.’  ‘ O yes,’  he 
says,  ‘ I know  these  gloves  very  well ; 

I ’ve  cleaned  dozens  of  pairs  of  ’em. 
They  belong  to  Mr.  Trinkle,  the  great 
upholsterer  in  Cheapside.’  ‘T)id  you 
get  ’em  from  Mr.  Trinkle,  direct,’  says 
I,  ‘ if  you  ’ll  excuse  my  asking  the 
question?’  ‘No,’  says  he  ; ‘Mr.  Trin- 
kle always  sends  ’em  to  Mr.  Phibbs’s, 
the  haberdasher’s,  opposite  his  shop, 
and  the  haberdasher  sends  ’em  to  me.’ 

‘ Perhaps  you  would  n’t  object  to  a 
drain  ? ’ says  I.  ‘Not  in  the  least ! ’ 
says  he.  So  I took  the  old  gentleman 
out,  and  had  a little  more  talk  with  him 
and  his  son  over  a glass,  and  we  part- 
ed ex-cellept  friends. 

“ This  was  late  on  a Saturday  night. 
First  thing  on  the  Monday  morning, 

I went  to  the  haberdasher’s  shop,  op- 
posite Mr..  Trinkle’s,  the  great  uphol- 


27 


4i8 


THREE  “ DETECTIVE ” ANECDOTES . 


sterer’s  in  Cheapside.  * Mr.  Phibbs 
in  the  way?’  ‘My  name  is  Phibbs.’ 
* Oh  ! I believe  you  sent  this  pair  of 
gloves  to  be  cleaned  ? ’ ‘ Yes  I did,  for 

young  Mr.  Trinkle  over  the  way. 
There  he  is,  in  the  shop  ! ’ ‘ Oh  ! that ’s 
him  in  the  shop,  is  it?  Him  in  the 
green  coat?’  ‘The  same  individual.’ 

‘ Well,  Mr.  Phibbs,  this  is  an  unpleas- 
ant affair  ; but  the  fact  is,  I am  In- 
spector Wield  of  the  Detective  Police, 
and  I found  these  gloves  under  the 
pillow  of  the  young  woman  that  was 
murdered  the  other  day,  over  in  the 
Waterloo  Road.’  ‘ Good  Heaven  ! ’ 
says  he.  ‘ He ’s  a most  respectable 
oung  man,  and  if  his  father  was  to 
ear  of  it,  it  would  be  the  ruin  of  him  ! ’ 
‘I ’m  very  sorry  for  it,’  says  I,  ‘but  I 
must  take  him  into  custody.’  ‘Good 
Heaven  ! ’ says  Mr.  Phibbs,  again  ; 
‘can  nothing  be  done?’  ‘Nothing,’ 
says  I.  ‘Will  you  allow  me  to  call 
him  over  here,’  says  he,  * that  his  father 
may  not  see  it  done  ? ’ ‘I  don’t  object 
to  that,’  says  I;  ‘but  unfortunately, 
Mr.  Phibbs,  I can’t  allow  of  any  com- 
munication between  you.  If  any  was 
attempted,  I should  have  to  interfere 
directly.  Perhaps  you  ’ll  beckon  him 
over  here  ? ’ Mr.  Phibbs  went  to  the 
door  and  beckoned,  and  the  young  fel- 
low came  across  the  street  directly ; 
a smart,  brisk  young  fellow. 

“ ‘ Good  morning,  sir,’  says  I.  * Good 
morning,  sir, says  he.  ‘Would  you 
allow  me  to  inquire,  sir,’  says  I,  ‘ if 
you  ever  had  any  acquaintance  with 
a party  of  the  name  of  Grim-wood  ? ’ 

‘ Grimwood  ! Grimwood  ! ’ says  he. 
‘No!’  ‘You  know  the  Waterloo 
Road?’  ‘ O,  of  course  I know'  the 
Waterloo  Road  ! ’ ‘ Happen  to  have 

heard  of  a young  woman  being  mur- 
dered there?’  ‘Yes,  I read  it  in  the 
paper,  and  very  sorry  I w'as  to  read 
it.’  ‘ Here ’s  a pair  of  gloves  belonging 
to  you,  that  I found  under  her  pillow 
the  morning  afterwards  ! ’ 

“ He  was  in  a dreadful  state,  sir,  — 
a dreadful  state!  ‘Mr.  Wield,’  he 
says,  ‘ upon  my  solemn  oath  I never 
was  there.  I never  so  much  as  saw 
her,  to  my  knowledge,  in  my  life  ! ’ 
‘I  am  very  sorry,’  says  I.  ‘To  tell 
you  the  truth,  I don’t  think  you  are 


the  murderer,  but  I must  take  you  to 
Union  Hall  in  a cab.  How'ever,  I 
think  it ’s  a case  of  that  sort  that,  at 
present,  at  all  events,  the  magistrate 
w'ill  hear  it  in  private.’ 

“A  private  examination  took  place, 
and  then  it  came  out  that  this  young 
man  wras  acquainted  with  a cousin  of  the 
unfortunate  Eliza  Grimwood,  and  that, 
calling  to  see  this  cousin  a day  or  two 
before  the  murder,  he  left  these  gloves 
upon  the  table.  Who  should  come  in, 
shortly  afterwards,  but  Eliza  Grimwood  ! 
‘ Whose  gloves  are  these  ? ’ she  says, 
taking  ’em  up.  ‘ Those  are  Mr.  Trin- 
kle’s  gloves,’  says  her  cousin.  * Oh  ! ’ 
says  she,  * they  are  very  dirty,  and  of 
no  use  to  him,  I am  sure.  I shall  take 
’em  aw?ay  for  my  girl  to  clean  the  stoves 
with.*  And  she  put  ’em  in  her  pocket. 
The  girl  had  used  ’em  to  clean  the 
stoves,  and,  I have  no  doubt,  had  left 
’em  lying  on  the  bedroom  mantel-piece 
or  on  the  drawers,  or  somewhere  ; and 
her  mistress,  looking  round  to  see  that 
the  room  was  tidy,  had  caught  ’em  up 
and  put  ’em  under  the  pillow  where  I 
found  ’em. 

“That’s  the  story,  sir.” 


II.  — THE  ARTFUL  TOUCH. 

“ One  of  the  most  beautiful  things 
that  ever  was  done,  perhaps,”  said  In- 
spector Wield,  emphasizing  the  adjec- 
tive, as  preparing  us  to  expect  dexterity 
or  ingenuity  rather  than  strong  interest, 
“was  a move  of  Sergeant  Witchem’s. 
It  vras  a lovely  idea  ! 

“ Witchem  and  me  were  down  at 
Epsom  one  Derby  Day,  waiting  at  the 
station  for  the  Swell  Mob.  As  I men- 
tioned, when  we  were  talking  about 
these  things  before,  we  are  ready  at  the 
station  when  there ’s  races,  or  an  Agri- 
cultural Show,  or  a Chancellor  sworn  in 
for  an  university,  or  Jenny  Lind,  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort ; and  as  the  Swell 
Mob  come  down,  we  send  ’em  back 
again  by  the  next  train.  But  some  of 
the  Swell  Mob,  on  the  occasion  of  this 
Derby  that  I refer  to,  so  far  kiddied 
us  as  to  hire  a horse  and  shay  ; start 
away  from  London  by  Whitechapel,  and 


THREE  “ DETECTIVE ” ANECDOTES. 


419 


miles  round ; come  into  Epsom  from 
the  opposite  direction ; and  go  to  work, 
right  and  left,  on  the  course,  while  we 
were  waiting1  for  ’em  at  the  Rail.  That, 
however,  ain’t  the  point  of  what  I ’m 
going  to  tell  you. 

“ While  Witchem  and  me  were  wait- 
ing at  the  station,  there  comes  up  one 
Mr.  Tatt,  a gentleman  formerly  in  the 
public  line,  quite  an  amateur  Detective 
in  his  way,  and  very  much  respected. 
‘Halloa,  Charley  Wield,’  he  says. 

‘ What  are  you  doing  here  ? On  the 
lookout  for  some  of  your  old  friends?’ 
‘Yes,  the  old  move,  Mr.  Tatt.’  ‘Come 
along,’  he  says,  ‘you  and  Witchem,  and 
have  a glass  of  sherry.’  ‘We  can’t  stir 
from  the  place,’  says  I,  ‘till  the  next 
train  comes  in  ; but  after  that  we  will 
with  pleasure.’  Mr.  Tatt  waits,  and 
the  train  comes  in,  and  then  Witchem 
and  me  go  off  with  him  to  the  Hotel. 
Mr.  Tatt,  he ’s  got  up  quite  regardless 
of  expense  for  the  occasion  ; and  in  his 
shirt-front  there ’s  a beautiful  diamond 
prop,  cost  him  fifteen  or  twenty  pound, 

— a very  handsome  pin  indeed.  We 
drink  our  sherry  at  the  bar,  and  have 
had  our  three  or  four  glasses,  when 
Witchem  cries  suddenly,  ‘Look  out, 
Mr.  Wield  ! stand  fast ! ’ and  a dash  is 
made  into  the  place  by  the  Swell  Mob 

— four  of  ’em  — that  have  come  down 
as  I tell  you,  and  in  a moment  Mr. 
Tatt’s  prop  is  gone  ! Witchem,  he  cuts 
’em  off  at  the  door,  I lay  about  me  as 
hard  as  I can,  Mr.  Tatt  shows  fight 
like  a good  ’un,  and  there  we  are,  all 
down  together,  heads  and  heels,  knock- 
ing about  on  the  floor  of  the  bar,  — per- 
haps you  never  see  such  a scene  of  con- 
fusion ! However,  we  stick  to  our  men 
(Mr.  Tatt  being  as  good  as  any  officer), 
and  we  take  ’em  all,  and  carry  ’em  off 
to  the  station.  The  station ’s  full  of 
people  who  have  been  took  on  the 
course  ; and  it ’s  a precious  piece  of 
work  to  get  ’em  secured.  However,  we 
do  it  at  last,  and  we  search  ’em  ; but 
nothing’s  found  upon  ’em,  and  they’re 
locked  up ; and  a pretty  state  of  heat 
we  are  in  by  that  time,  I assure  you ! 

“ I was  very  blank  over  it,  myself,  to 
think  that  the  prop  had  been  passed 
away  ; and  I said  to  Witchem,  when  we 
had  set  ’em  to  rights,  and  were  cooling 


ourselves  along  with  Mr.  Tatt,  ‘we 
don’t  take  much  by  this  move,  any  way, 
for  nothing’s  found  upon  ’em,  and  it ’s 
only  the  braggadocia  * after  all.’  ‘What 
do  you  mean,  Mr.  Wield,’  says  Witch- 
em. ‘ Here ’s  the  diamond  pin  ! ’ and 
in  the  palm  of  his  hand  there  it  was, 
safe  and  sound  ! ‘ Why,  in  the  name 

of  wonder,’  says  me  and  Mr.  Tatt,  in 
astonishment,  ‘ how  did  you  come  by 
that?’  ‘I’ll  tell  you  how  I come  by 
it,  ’ says  he.  ‘ I saw  which  of  ’em  took 
it ; and  when  we  were  all  down  on  the 
floor  together,  knocking  about,  I just 
ave  him  a little  touch  on  the  back  of 
is  hand,  as  I knew  his  pal  would ; and 
he  thought  it  was  his  pal ; and  gave  it 
me  ! ’ It  was  beautiful,  beau-ti-ful  ! 

“ Even  that  was  hardly  the  best  of 
the  case,  for  that  chap  was  tried  at  the 
Quarter  Sessions  at  Guildford.  You 
know  what  Quarter  Sessions  are,  sir. 
Well,  if  you’ll  believe  me,  while  them 
slow  justices  were  looking  over  the 
Acts  of  Parliament,  to  see  what  they 
could  do  to  him,  I ’m  blowed  if  he 
did  n’t  cut  out  of  the  dock  before  their 
faces ! He  cut  out  of  the  dock,  sir, 
then  and  there  ; swam  across  a river ; 
and  got  up  into  a tree  to  dry  himself. 
In  the  tree  he  was  took,  — an  old  wo- 
man having  seen  him  climb  up, — and 
Witchem’s  artful  touch  transported 
him  ! ” 


III.— THE  SOFA. 

“What  young  men  will  do,  some- 
times, to  ruin  themselves  and  break 
their  friends’  hearts,”  said  Sergeant 
Domton,  “ it ’s  surprising  ! I had  a 
case  at  Saint  Blank’s  Hospital  which 
was  of  this  sort.  A bad  case,  indeed, 
with  a bad  end  ! 

“ The  Secretary,  and  the  House- 
Surgeon,  and  the  Treasurer,  of  Saint 
Blank’s  Hospital,  came  to  Scotland 
Yard  to  give  information  of  numerous 
robberies  having  been  committed  on  the 
students..  The  students  could  leave 
nothing  in  the  pockets  of  their  great- 
coats, while  the  great-coats  were  hang- 

* Three  months’  imprisonment,  as  reputed 
thieves. 


420 


THREE  “ DETECTIVE ” ANECDOTES. 


ing  at  the  hospital,  but  it  was  almost 
certain  to  be  stolen.  Property  of  vari- 
ous descriptions  was  constantly  being 
lost ; and  the  gentlemen  were  naturally 
uneasy  about  it,  and  anxious,  for  the 
credit  of  the  institution,  that  the  thief 
or  thieves  should  be  discovered.  The 
case  was  intrusted  to  me,  and  I went 
to  the  hospital. 

“ ‘ Now,  gentlemen,’  said  I,  after  we 
had  talked  it  over  ; ‘ I understand  this 
property  is  usually  lost  from  one  room.’ 
“Yes,  they  said.  It  was. 

“ * I should  wish,  if  you  please,’  said 
I,  ‘ to  see  the  room.’ 

“It  was  a good-sized  bare  room  down 
stairs,  with  a few  tables  and  forms  in  it, 
and  a row  of  pegs,  all  round,  for  hats 
and  coats. 

“ ‘ Next,  gentlemen,*  said  I,  ‘ do  you 
suspect  anybody  ? ’ 

“Yes,  they  said.  They  did  suspect 
somebody.  They  were  sorry  to  say  they 
suspected  one  of  the  porters. 

“ ‘ I should  like,’  said  I,  ‘ to  have  that 
man  pointed  out  to  me,  and  to  have  a 
little  time  to  look  after  him.’ 

“ He  was  pointed  out,  and  I looked 
after  him,  and  then  I went  back  to  the 
hospital,  and  said,  ‘ Now,  gentlemen, 
it ’s  not  the  porter.  He ’s,  unfortunate- 
ly for  himself,  a little  too  fond  of  drink, 
but  he  ’s  nothing  worse.  My  suspicion 
is,  that  these  robberies  are  committed 
by  one  of  the  students  ; and  if  you  ’ll 
put  me  a sofa  into  that  room  where  the 
pegs  are — as  there’s  no  closet  — I 
think  I shall  be  able  to  detect  the  thief. 
I wish  the  sofa,  if  you  please,  to  be  cov- 
ered with  chintz,  or  something  of  that 
sort,  so  that  I may  lie  on  my  chest,  un- 
derneath it,  without  being  seen.’ 

“The  sofa  was  provided,  and  next 
day  at  eleven  o’clock,  before  any  of  the 
students  came,  I went  there,  with  those 
gentlemen,  to  get  underneath  it.  It 
turned  out  to  be  one  of  those  old-fash- 
ioned sofas  with  a great  cross-beam  at 
the  bottom,  that  would  have  broken  my 
back  in  no  time  if  I could  ever  have  got 
below  it.  We  had  quite  a job  to  break 
all  this  away  in  the  time  ; however,  I 
fell  to  work,  and  they  fell  to  work,  and 
we  broke  it  out,  and  made  a clear  place 
for  me.  I got  under  the  sofa,  lay  down 
on  my  chest,  took  out  my  knife,  and 


made  a convenient  hole  in  the  chintz  to 
look  through.  It  was  then  settled  be- 
tween me  and  the  gentlemen,  that  when 
the  students  were  all  up  in  the  wards, 
one  of  the  gentlemen  should  come  in, 
and  hang  up  a great-coat  on  one  of  the 
pegs.  And  that  that  great-coat  should 
have,  in  one  of  the  pockets,  a pocket- 
book  containing  marked  money. 

“ After  I had  been  there  some  time, 
the  students  began  to  drop  into  the 
room  by  ones,  and  twos,  and  threes,  and 
to  talk  about  all  sorts  of  things,  little 
thinking  there  was  anybody  under  the 
sofa,  — and  then  to  go  up  stairs.  At 
last  there  came  in  one  who  remained 
until  he  was  alone  in  the  room  by  him- 
self. A tallish,  good-looking  young 
man  of  one  or  two  and  twenty,  with  a 
light  whisker.  He  went  to  a particular 
hat-peg,  took  off  a good  hat  that  was 
hanging  there,  tried  it  on,  hung  his  own 
hat  in  its  place  and  hung  that  hat  on 
another  peg,  nearly  opposite  to  me.  I 
then  felt  quite  certain  that  he  was  the 
thief,  and  would  come  back  by  and  by. 

“ When  they  were  all  up  stairs,  the 
gentleman  came  in  with  the  great-coat. 
I showed  him  where  to  hang  it,  so  that 
I might  have  a good  view  of  it ; and  he 
went  away  ; and  I lay  under  the  sofa  on 
my  chest,  for  a couple  of  hours  or  so, 
waiting. 

“ At  last,  the  same  young  man  came 
down.  He  walked  across  the  room, 
whistling  — stopped  and  listened  — took 
another  walk  and  whistled  — stopped 
again,  and  listened  — then  began  to  go 
regularly  round  the  pegs,  feeling  in  the 
pockets  of  all  the  coats.  When  he 
came  to  the  great-coat,  and  felt  the 
pocket-book,  he  was  so  eager  and  so 
hurried  that  he  broke  the  strap  in  tear- 
ing it  open.  As  he  began  to  put  the 
money  in  his  pocket,  I crawled  out 
from  under  the  sofa,  and  his  eyes  met 
mine. 

“ My  face,  as  you  may  perceive,  is 
brown  now,  but  it  was  pale  at  that  time, 
my  health  not  being  good,  and  looked 
as  long  as  a horse’s.  Besides  which, 
there  was  a great  draught  of  air  from 
the  door,  underneath  the  sofa,  and  I 
had  tied  a handkerchief  round  my  head  ; 
so  what  I looked  like,  altogether,  I don’t 
know.  He  turned  blue  — literally  blue 


ON  DUTY  WITH  INSPECTOR  FIELD . 


421 


— when  he  saw  me  crawling  out,  and  I 
could  n’t  feel  surprised  at  it. 

“ 4 1 am  an  officer  of  the  Detective 
Police,’  said  I,  ‘and  have  been  lying 
here,  since  you  first  came  in  this  morn- 
ing. I regret,  for  the  sake  of  yourself 
and  your  friends,  that  you  should  have 
done  what  you  have  ; but  this  case  is 
complete.  You  have  the  pocket-book 
in  your  hand  and  the  money  upon  you, 
and  I must  take  you  into  custody  ! ’ 

“ It  was  impossible  to  make  out  any 
case  in  his  behalf,  and  on  his  trial  he 
pleaded  guilty.  How  or  when  he  got 
the  means  I don’t  know  ; but  while  he 


was  awaiting  his  sentence,  he  poisoned 
himself  in  Newgate.” 

We  inquired  of  this  officer,  on  the 
conclusion  of  the  foregoing  anecdote, 
whether  the  time  appeared  long,  or 
short,  when  he  lay  in  that  constrained 
position  under  the  sofa. 

“Why,  you  see,  sir,”  he  replied,  “if 
he  hadn’t  come  in  the  first  time  and  I 
had  not  been  quite  sure  he  was  the 
thief,  and  would  return,  the  time  would 
have  seemed  long.  But  as  it  was,  I 
being  dead-certain  of  my  man,  the  time 
seemed  pretty  short.” 


ON  DUTY  WITH  INSPECTOR  FIELD. 


How  goes  the  night?  Saint  Giles’s 
clock  is  striking  nine.  The  weather  is 
dull  and  wet,  and  the  long  lines  of  street 
lamps  are  blurred,  as  if  we  saw  them 
through  tears.  A damp  wind  blows 
and  rakes  the  pieman’s  fire  out,  when 
he  opens  the  door  of  his  little  furnace, 
carrying  away  an  eddy  of  sparks. 

Saint  Giles’s  clock  strikes  nine.  We 
are  punctual.  Where  is  Inspector 
Field?  Assistant  Commissioner  of 
Police  is  already  here,  enwrapped  in  oil- 
skin cloak,  and  standing  in  the  shadow 
of  Saint  Giles’s  steeple.  Detective 
Sergeant,  weary  of  speaking  French  all 
day  to  foreigners  unpacking  at  the 
Great  Exhibition,  is  already  here. 
Where  is  Inspector  Field? 

Inspector  Field  is  to-night  the  guar- 
dian genius  of  the  British  Museum.  He 
is  bringing  his  shrewd  eye  to  bear  on 
every  corner  of  its  solitary  galleries,  be- 
fore he  reports  “ all  right.”  Suspicious 
of  the  Elgin  marbles,  and  not  to  be  done 
by  cat-faced  Egyptian  giants  with  their 
hands  upon  their  knees,  Inspector  Field, 
sagacious,  vigilant,  lamp  in  hand,  throw- 
ing monstrous  shadows  on  the  walls 
and  ceilings,  passes  through  the  spacious 
rooms.  If  a mummy  trembled  in  an 


atom  of  its  dusty  covering.  Inspector 
Field  would  say,  “Come  out  of  that, 
Tom  Green.  I know  you  ! ” If  the 
smallest  “ Gonoph  ” about  town  were 
crouching  at  the  bottom  of  a classic 
bath,  Inspector  Field  would  nose  him 
with  a finer  scent  than  the  ogre’s  when 
adventurous  Jack  lay  trembling  in  his 
kitchen  copper.  But  all  is  quiet,  and 
Inspector  Field  goes  warily  on,  making 
little  outward  show  of  attending  to  any- 
thing in  particular,  just  recognizing  the 
Ichthyosaurus  as  a familiar  acquaintance, 
and  wondering,  perhaps,  how  the  de- 
tectives did  it  in  the  days  before  the 
Flood. 

Will  Inspector  Field  be  long  about 
this  work?  He  may  be  half  an  hour 
longer.  He  sends  his  compliments  by 
Police  Constable,  and  proposes  that  we 
meet  at  St.  Giles’s  Station  House,  across 
the  road.  Good.  It  were  as  well  to 
stand  by  the  fire,  there,  as  in  the  shad- 
ow of  Saint  Giles’s  steeple. 

Anything  doing  here  to-night?  Not 
much.  We  are  very  quiet.  A lost  boy, 
extremely  calm  and  small,  sitting  by 
the  fire,  whom  we  now  confide  to  a con- 
stable to  take  home,  for  the  child  says 
that  if  you  show  him  Newgate  Street4 


422 


ON  DUTY  WITH  INSPECTOR  FIELD . 


he  can  show  you  where  he  lives,  — a 
raving  drunken  woman  in  the  cells,  who 
has  screeched  her  voice  away,  and  has 
hardly  power  enough  left  to  declare,  even 
with  the  passionate  help  of  her  feet  and 
arms,  that  she  is  the  daughter  of  a 
British  officer,  and,  strike  her  blind  and 
dead,  but  she  ’ll  write  a letter  to  the 
Queen  ! but  who  is  soothed  with  a 
drink  of  water,  — in  another  cell,  a quiet 
woman  with  a child  at  her  breast,  for 
begging,  — in  another,  her  husband  in 
a smock-frock,  with  a basket  of  water- 
cresses,  — in  another,  a pickpocket,  — 
in  another,  a meek,  tremulous  old  pau- 
per man  who  has  been  out  for  a holiday 
“ and  has  took  but  a little  drop,  but  it 
has  overcome  him  arter  so  many  months 
in  the  house,”  — and  that ’s  all  as  yet. 
Presently,  a sensation  at  the  Station 
House  door.  Mr.  Field,  gentlemen  ! 

Inspector  Field  comes  in,  wiping  his 
forehead,  for  he  is  of  a burly  figure,  and 
has  come  fast  from  the  ores  and  metals 
of  the  deep  mines  of  the  earth,  and  from 
the  Parrot  Gods  of  the  South  Sea  Isl- 
ands, and  from  the  birds  and  beetles  of 
the  tropics,  and  from  the  Arts  of  Greece 
and  Rome,  and  from  the  Sculptures 
of  Nineveh,  and  from  the  traces  of 
an  elder  world,  when  these  were  not. 
Is  Rogers  ready?  Rogers  is  ready, 
strapped  and  great-coated,  with  a flam- 
ing eye  in  the  middle  of  his  waist,  like 
a deformed  Cyclops.  Lead  on,  Rogers, 
to  Rats’  Castle  ! 

How  many  people  may  there  be  in 
London,  who,  if  we  had  brought  them 
deviously  and  blindfold  to  this  street, 
fifty  paces  from  the  Station  House,  and 
within  call  of  Saint  Giles’s  church, 
would  know  it  for  a not  remote  part  of 
the  city  in  which  their  lives  are  passed  ? 
How  many,  who,  amidst  this  compound 
of  sickening  smells,  these  heaps  of  filth, 
these  tumbling  houses,  with  all  their 
vile  contents,  animate  and  inanimate, 
slimily  overflowing  into  the  black  road, 
would  believe  that  they  breathe  this 
air?  How  much  Red  Tape  may  there 
be,  that  could  look  round  on  the  faces 
which  now  hem  ns  in,  — for  our  appear- 
ance here  has  caused  a rush  from  all 
points  to  a common  centre,  — the  lower- 
ing foreheads,  the  sallow  cheeks,  the 
brutal  eyes,  the  matted  hair,  the  infect- 


ed, vermin-haunted  heaps  of  rags,  — 
and  say,  “ I have  thought  of  this.  I 
have  not  dismissed  the  thing.  I have 
neither  blustered  it  away,  nor  frozen  it 
away,  nor  tied  it  up  and  put  it  away, 
nor  smoothly  said  Pooh,  pooh  ! to  it, 
when  it  has  been  shown  to  me  ” ? 

This  is  not  what  Rogers  wants  to 
know,  however.  What  Rogers  wants 
to  know  is,  whether  you  will  clear  the 
way  here,  some  of  you,  or  whether  you 
won’t ; because  if  you  don’t  do  it  right 
on  end,  he  ’ll  lock  you  up  ! What  ! 
You  are  there,  are  you,  Bob  Miles? 
You  have  n’t  had  enough  of  it  yet, 
have  n’t  you  ? You  want  three  months 
more,  do  you?  Come  away  from  that 
gentleman  ! What  are  you  creeping 
round  there  for? 

“ What  am  I a doing,  thinn,  Mr. 
Rogers?”  says  Bob  Miles,  appearing, 
villanous,  at  the  end  of  a lane  of  light, 
made  by  the  lantern. 

“ I ’ll  let  you  know  pretty  quick,  if  you 
don’t  hook  it.  Will  you  hook  it?  ” 

A sycophantic  murmur  rises  from  the 
crowd.  “ Hook  it,  Bob,  when  Mr. 
Rogers  and  Mr.  Field  tells  you  ! Why 
don’t  you  hook  it,  when  you  are  told 
to?  ” 

The  most  importunate  of  the  voices 
strikes  familiarly  on  Mr.  Rogers’s  ear. 
He  suddenly  turns  his  lantern  on  the 
owner. 

“What!  You  are  there,  are  you, 
Mister  Click?  You  hook  it  too  — 
come  ! ” 

“What  for?”  says  Mr.  Click,  dis- 
comfited. 

“ You  hook  it,  will  you  ! ” says  Mr. 
Rogers  with  stern  emphasis. 

Both  Click  and  Miles  do  “ hook  it,” 
without  another  word,  or,  in  plainer 
English,  sneak  away. 

“ Close  up  there,  my  men  ! ” says  In- 
spector Field  to  two  constables  on  duty 
who  have  followed.  “ Keep  together, 
gentlemen  ; we  are  going  down  here. 
Heads  ! ” 

Saint  Giles’s  church  strikes  half  past 
ten.  We  stoop  low,  and  creep  down  a 
precipitous  flight  of  steps  into  a dark, 
close  cellar.  There  is  a fire.  There  is 
a long  deal  table.  There  are  benches. 
The  cellar  is  full  of  company,  chiefly 
very  young  men  in  various  conditions  of 


ON  DUTY  WITH  INSPECTOR  FIELD. 


423 


dirt  and  raggedness.  Some  are  eating 
supper.  There  are  no  girls  or  women 
present.  Welcome  to  Rats’  Castle,  gen- 
tlemen, and  to  this  company  of  noted 
thieves  ! 

“ Well,  my  lads  ! How  are  you,  my 
lads?  What  have  you  been  doing  to- 
day? Here ’s  some  company  come  to 
see  you,  my  lads  ! There ’s  a plate  of 
beefsteak,  sir,  for  the  supper  of  a fine 
young  man  ! And  there ’s  a mouth  for 
a steak,  sir  ! Why,  I should  be  too 
proud  of  such  a mouth  as  that,  if  I had 
it  myself!  Stand  up  and  show  it,  sir! 
Take  off  your  cap.  There ’s  a fine 
young  man  for  a nice  little  party,  sir  ! 
Ain’t  he  ? ” 

Inspector  Field  is  the  bustling  speak- 
er. Inspector  Field’s  eye  is  the  roving 
eye  that  searches  every  corner  of  the 
cellar  as  he  talks.  Inspector  Field’s 
hand  is  the  well-known  hand  that  has 
collared  half  the  people  here,  and  mo- 
tioned their  brothers,  sisters,  fathers, 
mothers,  male  and  female  friends,  in- 
exorably to  New  South  Wales.  Yet 
Inspector  Field  stands  in  this  den,  the 
Sultan  of  the  place.  Every  thief  here 
cowers  before  him,  like  a school-boy 
before  his  schoolmaster.  All  watch 
hitn,  all  answer  when  addressed,  all 
laugh  at  his  jokes,  all  seek  to  propitiate 
him.  This  cellar-company  alone  — to 
say  nothing  of  the  crowd  surrounding 
the  entrance  from  the  street  above,  and 
making  the  steps  shine  with  eyes  — is 
strong  enough  to  murder  us  all,  and 
villing  enough  to  do  it ; but,  let  In- 
spector Field  have  a mind  to  pick  out 
jne  thief  here,  and  take  him  ; let  him 
produce  that  ghostly  truncheon  from 
his  pocket,  and  say,  with  his  business 
air,  “ My  lad,  I want  you  ! ” and  all 
Rats’  Castle  shall  be  stricken  with  pa- 
ralysis, and  not  a finger  move  against 
him  as  he  fits  the  handcuffs  on  ! 

Where’s  the  Earl  of  Warwick?  — 
Here  he  is,  Mr.  Field ! Here ’s  the 
Earl  of  Warwick,  Mr.  Field  ! — O,  there 
you  are,  my  Lord.  Come  for’ard. 
There ’s  a chest,  sir,  not  to  have  a 
clean  shirt  on.  Ain’t  it.  Take  your 
hat  off,  ray  Lord.  Why,  I should  be 
ashamed  if  I was  you — and  an  Earl, 
too  — to  show  myself  to  a gentleman 
with  my  hat  on  ! — The  Earl  of  War- 


wick laughs  and  uncovers.  All  the 
company  laugh.  . One  pickpocket,  es- 
pecially, laughs  with  great  enthusiasm. 
O,  what  a jolly  game  it  is,  when  Mr. 
Field  conies  down,  and  don’t  want 
nobody  ! 

So,  you  are  here,  too,  are  you,  you 
tall,  gray,  soldierly-looking,  grave  man 
standing  by  the  fire  ? — Yes,  sir.  Good 
evening,  Mr.  Field  ! — Let  us  see.  You 
lived  servant  to  a nobleman  once  ? — 
Yes,  Mr.  Field.  — And  what  is  it  you 
do  now  ; I forget?  — Well,  Mr.  Field, 
I job  about  as  well  as  I can.  I left  my 
employment  on  account  of  delicate 
health.  The  family  is  still  kind  to  me. 
Mr.  Wix  of  Piccadilly  is  also  very  kind 
to  me  when  I am  hard  up.  Likewise 
Mr.  Nix  of  Oxford  Street.  I get  a 
trifle  from  them  occasionally,  and  rub 
on  as  well  as  I can,  Mr.  Field.  Mr. 
Field’s  eye  rolls  enjoyingly,  for  this 
man  is  a notorious  begging-letter  writer. 
— Good  night,  my  lads  ! — .Good  night, 
Mr.  Field,  and  thank’ee,  sir  ! 

Clear  the  street  here,  half  a thousand 
of  you  ! Cut  it,  Mrs.  Stalker  — none 
of  that  — we  don’t  want  you  ! Rogers 
of  the  flaming  eye,  lead  on  to  the 
tramps’  lodging-house  ! 

A dream  of  baleful  faces  attends  to 
the  door.  Now,  stand  back  all  of  you  ! 
In  the  rear  Detective  Sergeant  plants 
himself,  composedly  whistling  with  his 
strong  right  arm  across  the  narrow  pas- 
sage. Mrs.  Stalker,  I am  something’d 
that  need  not  be  written  here,  if  you 
won’t  get  yourself  into  trouble,  in  about 
half  a minute,  if  I see  that  face  of  yours 
again  ! 

Saint  Giles’s  church-clock,  striking 
eleven,  hums  through  our  hand  from 
the  dilapidated  door  of  a dark  outhouse 
as  we  open  it,  and  are  stricken  back  by 
the  pestilent  breath  that  issues  from 
within.  Rogers  to  the  front  with  the 
light,  and  let  us  look  ! 

Ten,  twenty,  thirty,  — who  can  count 
them  ! Men,  women,  children,  for  the 
most  part  naked,  heaped  upon  the  floor 
like  maggots  in  a cheese  ! Ho  ! In 
that  dark  corner  yonder ! Does  any- 
*body  lie  there?  Me,  sir,  Irish  me,  a 
widder,  with  six  children.  And  yon- 
der ? Me,  sir,  Irish  me,  with  me  wife 
and  eight  poor  babes.  And  to  the  left 


424 


ON  DUTY  WITH  INSPECTOR  FIELD. 


there  ? Me,  sir,  Irish  me,  along  with 
two  more  Irish  boys  as  is  me  friends. 
And  to  the  right  there?  Me,  sir,  and 
the  Murphy  fam’ly,  numbering  five 
blessed  souls.  And  what ’s  this,  coil- 
ing, now,  about  my  foot?  Another 
Irish  me,  pitifully  in  want  of  shaving, 
whom  I have  awakened  from  sleep,  — 
and  across  my  other  foot  lies  his  wife, 
— and  by  the  shoes  of  Inspector  Field 
lie  their  three  eldest,  — and  their  three 
youngest  are  at  present  squeezed  be- 
tween the  open  door  and  the  wall. 
And  why  is  there  no  one  on  that  little 
mat  before  the  sullen  fire.  Because 
O’Donovan,  with  his  wife  and  daughter 
is  not  come  in  from  selling  Lucifers  ! 
Nor  on  the  bit  of  sacking  in  the  nearest 
corner?  Bad  luck.  Because  that  Irish 
family  is  late  to-night,  a-cadging  in  the 
streets  ! 

They  are  all  awake  now,  the  children 
excepted,  and  most  of  them  sit  up,  to 
stare.  Wheresoever  Mr.  Rogers  turns 
the  flaming  eye,  there  is  a spectral  fig- 
ure, rising  unshrouded,  from  a grave  of 
rags.  Who  is  the  landlord  here  ? — I 
am,  Mr.  Field  ! says  a bundle  of  ribs 
and  jDarchment  against  the  wall, 
scratching  itself.  — Will  you  spend  this 
money  fairly,  in  the  morning,  to  buy 
coffee  for  ’em  all  ? — Yes,  sir,  I will  ! — 
O,  he  ’ll  do  it,  sir,  he  ’ll  do  it  fair.  He ’s 
honest  ! cry  the  spectres.  And  with 
thanks  and  Good  Night  sink  into  their 
graves  again. 

Thus,  we  make  our  New  Oxford 
Streets,  and  our  other  new  streets,  never 
heeding,  never  asking,  where  the 
wretches  whom  we  clear  out  crowd. 
With  such  scenes  at  our  doors,  with  all 
the  plagues  of  Egypt  tied  up  with  bits 
of  cobweb  in  kennels  so  near  our  homes, 
we  timorously  make  our  Nuisance  Bills 
and  Boards  of  Health,  nonentities,  and 
think  to  keep  aw'ay  the  wolves  of  crime 
and  filth  by  our  electioneering  ducking 
to  little  vestrymen  and  our  gentlemanly 
handling  of  Red  Tape  ! 

Intelligence  of  the  coffee  money  has 
got  abroad.  The  yard  is  full,  and  Rog- 
ers of  the  flaming  eye  is  beleaguered 
with  entreaties  to  show  other  Lodging 
Houses.  Mine  next  ! Mine  ! Mine  ! 
Rogers,  military,  obdurate,  stiff-necked, 
immovable,  replies  not,  but  leads  away  ; 


all  falling  back  before  him.  Inspector 
P'ield  follow's.  Detective  Sergeant, 
with  his  barrier  of  arm  across  the  little 
passage,  deliberately  waits  to  close  the 
procession.  He  sees  behind  him,  with- 
out any  effort,  and.  exceedingly  disturbs 
one  individual  far  in  the  rear  by  coolly 
calling  out,  “ It  won’t  do,  Mr.  Michael ! 
Don’t  try  it ! ” 

After  council  holden  in  the  street, 
we  enter  other  lodging-houses,  public- 
houses,  many  lairs  and  holes ; all  noi- 
some and  offensive  ; none  so  filthy  and 
so  crowded  as  where  Irish  are.  In  one 
The  Ethiopian  party  are  expected  home 
presently  — were  in  Oxford  Street  when 
last  heard  of — shall  be  fetched,  for  our 
delight,  within  ten  minutes.  In  anoth- 
er, one  of  the  two  or  three  Professors 
who  draw  Napoleon  Bonaparte  and  a 
couple  of  mackerel,  on  the  pavement, 
and  then  let  the  work  of  art  out  to  a 
speculator,  is  refreshing  after  his  labors. 
In  another,  the  vested  interest  of  the 
profitable  nuisance  has  been  in  one  fam- 
ily for  a hundred  years,  and  the  land- 
lord drives  in  comfortably  from  the 
country  to  his  snug  little  stew  in  town. 
In  all  Inspector  Field  is  received  with 
warmth.  Coiners  and  smashers  droop 
before  him  ; pickpockets  defer  to  him  ; 
the  gentle  sex  (not  very  gentle  here) 
smile  upon  him.  Half-drunken  hags 
check  themselves  in  the  midst  of  pots 
of  beer  or  pints  of  gin,  to  drink  to  Mr. 
Field,  and  pressingly  to  ask  the  honor 
of  his  finishing  the  draught.  One  bel- 
dame in  rusty  black  has  such  admira- 
tion for  him  that  she  runs  a whole 
street’s  length  to  shake  him  by  the 
hand  ; tumbling  into  a heap  of  mud  by 
the  way,  and  still  pressing  her  atten- 
tions when  her  very  form  has  ceased  to 
be  distinguishable  through  it.  Before 
the  power  of  the  law,  the  power  of  su- 
perior sense  — for  common  thieves  are 
fools  beside  these  men  — and  the  pow- 
er of  a perfect  mastery  of  their  charac- 
ter, the  garrison  of  Rats’  Castle  and  the 
adjacent  Fortresses  make  but  a skulk- 
ing show'  indeed  when  reviewed  by  In- 
spector Field. 

Saint  Giles’s  clock  says  it  will  be 
midnight  in  half  an  hour,  and  Inspec- 
tor Field  says  we  must  hurry  to  the  Old 
Mint  in  the  Borough.  The  cab-driver 


ON  DUTY  WITH  INSPECTOR  FIELD. 


425 


is  low-spirited,  and  has  a solemn  sense 
of  his  responsibility.  Now,  what’s 
your  fare,  my  lad?  — O , you  know,  In- 
spector Field,  what ’s  the  good  of  ask- 
ing me  ! 

Say,  Parker,  strapped  and  great- 
coated,  and  waiting  in  dim  Borough 
doorway,  by  appointment,  to  replace  the 
trusty  Rogers  whom  we  left  deep  in 
Saint  Giles’s,  are  you  ready?  Ready, 
Inspector  Field,  and  at  a motion  of  my 
wrist  behold  my  flaming  eye. 

This  narrow  street,  sir,  is  the  chief 
part  of  the  Old  Mint,  full  of  low  lodg- 
ing-houses, as  you  see  by  the  transpar- 
ent canvas-lamps  and  blinds  announ- 
cing beds  for  travellers  ! But  it  is  great- 
ly changed,  friend  Field,  from  my  for- 
mer knowledge  of  it  ; it  is  infinitely 
quieter  and  more  subdued  than  when 
I was  here  last,  some  seven  years  ago  ? 
O yes  ! Inspector  Haynes,  a first-rate 
man,  is  on  this  station  now  and  plays 
the  Devil  with  them  ! 

Well,  my  lads  ! How  are  you  to- 
night, my  lads?  Playing  cards  here, 
eh?  Who  wins?  — Why,  Mr.  Field,  I, 
the  sulky  gentleman  with  the  damp  flat 
side-curls,  rubbing  my  bleared  eye  with 
the  end  of  my  neckerchief  which  is  like 
a dirty  eel-skin,  am  losing  just  at  pres- 
ent, but  I suppose  I must  take  my  pipe 
out  of  my  mouth,  and  be  submissive  to 
you,  — I hope  I see  you  well,  Mr.  Field  ? 
— Ay,  all  right,  my  lad.  Deputy,  who 
have  you  got  up  stairs  ? Be  pleased  to 
show  the  rooms  ! 

Why  Deputy,  Inspector  Field  can’t 
say.  He  only  knows  that  the  man  who 
takes  care  of  the  beds  and  lodgers  is 
always  called  so.  Steady,  O Deputy, 
with  the  flaring  candle  in  the  blacking- 
bottle,  for  this  is  a slushy  back-yard, 
and  the  wooden  staircase  outside  the 
house  creaks  and  has  holes  in  it. 

Again,  in  these  confined  intolerable 
rooms,  burrowed  out  like  the  holes  of 
rats  or  the  nests  of  insect-vermin,  but 
fuller  of  intolerable  smells,  are  crowds 
of  sleepers,  each  on  his  foul  truckle-bed 
coiled  up  beneath  a rug.  Halloa  here  ! 
Come ! Let  us  see  you  ! Show  your 
face  ! Pilot  Parker  goes  from  bed  to 
bed  and  turns  their  slumbering  heads 
towards  us,  as  a salesman  might  turn 
sheep.  Some  wake  up  with  an  execra- 


tion and  a threat.  — What ! who  spoke  ? 
Oh  ! If  it ’s  the  accursed  glaring  eye 
that  fixes  me,  go  where  I will,  I am 
helpless.  Here  ! I sit  up  to  be  looked 
at.  Is  it  me  you  want?  — Not  you  ; lie 
down  again  ! — and  I lie  down,  with  a 
woful  growl. 

Wherever  the  turning  lane  of  light 
becomes  stationary  for  a moment,  some 
sleeper  appears  at  the  end  of  it,  submits 
himself  to  be  scrutinized,  and  fades 
away  into  the  darkness. 

There  should  be  strange  dreams 
here,  Deputy.  They  sleep  sound 
enough,  says  Deputy,  taking  the  candle 
out  of  the  blacking-bottle,  snuffing  it 
with  his  fingers,  throwing  the  snuff  into 
the  bottle,  and  corking  it  up  with  the 
candle ; that ’s  all  I know.  What  is 
the  inscription,  Deputy,  on  all  the  dis- 
colored sheets?  A precaution  against 
loss  of  linen.  Deputy  turns  down  the 
rug  of  an  unoccupied  bed  and  discloses 
it.  Stop  Thief  ! 

To  lie  at  night,  wrapped  in  the  legend 
of  my  slinking  life  ; to  take  the  cry  that 
pursues  me,  waking,  to  my  breast  in 
sleep ; to  have  it  staring  at  me,  and 
clamoring  for  me,  as  soon  as  conscious- 
ness returns  ; to  have  it  for  my  first-foot 
on  New-Year’s  day,  my  Valentine,  my 
Birthday  salute,  my  Christmas  greeting, 
my  parting  with  the  old  year.  Stop 
Thief  ! 

And  to  know  that  I must  be  stopped, 
come  what  will.  To  know  that  I am 
no  match  for  this  individual  energy  and 
keenness,  or  this  organized  and  steady 
system ! Come  across  the  street  here, 
and,  entering  by  a little  shop  and  yard, 
examine  these  intricate  passages  and 
doors,  contrived  for  escape,  flapping 
and  counter-flapping,  like  the  lids  of 
the  conjurer’s  boxes.  But  what  avail 
they?  Who  gets  in  by  a nod,  and 
shows  their  secret  working  to  us?  In- 
spector Field. 

Don’t  forget  the  old  Farm  House, 
Parker  ! Parker  is  not  the  man  to  for- 
get it.  We  are  going  there,  now.  It  is 
the  old  Manor-House  of  these  parts, 
and  stood  in  the  country  once.  Then, 
perhaps,  there  was  something,  which 
was  not  the  beastly  street,  to  see  from 
the  shattered  low  fronts  of  the  over- 
hanging wooden  houses  we  are  passing 


426 


ON  DUTY  WITH  INSPECTOR  FIELD. 


under,  — shut  up  now,  pasted  over  with 
bills  about  the  literature  and  drama  of 
the  Mint,  and  mouldering  away.  This 
long  paved  yard  was  a paddock  or  a 
garden  once,  or  a court  in  front  of  the 
Farm  House.  Perchance,  with  a dove- 
cot in  the  centre,  and  fowls  pecking 
about,  — with  fair  elm-trees,  then,  where 
discolored  chimney-stacks  and  gables 
are  now, — noisy,  then,  with  rooks 
which  have  yielded  to  a different  sort  of 
rookery.  It ’s  likelier  than  not,  Inspec- 
tor Field  thinks,  as  we  turn  into  the 
common  kitchen  which  is  in  the  yard, 
and  many  paces  from  the  house. 

Well,  my  lads  and  lasses,  how  are  you 
all ! Where ’s  Blackey,  who  has  stood 
near  London  Bridge  these  five-and- 
twenty  years,  with  a painted  skin  to 
represent  disease?  — Here  he  is,  Mr. 
Field! — How  are  you,  Blackey?  — 
Jolly,  sa  ! — Not  playing  the  fiddle  to- 
night, Blackey? — Not  a night,  sa  ! — A 
sharp,  smiling  youth,  the  wit  of  the 
kitchen,  interposes.  He  ain’t  musical 
to-night,  sir.  I ’ve  been  giving  him  a 
moral  lecture ; I ’ve  been  a talking  to 
him*  about  his  latter  end,  you  see.  A 
good  many  of  these  are  my  pupils,  sir. 
This  here  young  man  (smoothing  down 
the  hair  of  one  near  him,  reading  a 
Sunday  paper)  is  a pupil  of  mine.  I ’m 
a teaching  of  him  to  read,  sir.  He ’s  a 
promising  cove,  sir.  He ’s  a smith,  he 
is,  and  gets  his  living  by  the  sweat  of 
the  brow,  sir.  So  do  I,  myself,  sir. 
This  young  woman  is  my  sister,  Mr. 
Field.  She's  getting  on  very  well  too. 
I ’ve  a deal  of  trouble  with  ’em,  sir,  but 
I ’m  richly  rewarded,  now  I see  ’em  all 
a doing  so  well,  and  growing  up  so 
creditable.  That ’s  a great  comfort, 
that  is,  ain’t  it,  sir?  — In  the  midst  of 
the  kitchen  (the  whole  kitchen  is  in 
ecstasies  with  this  impromptu  “ chaff”) 
sits  a young,  modest,  gentle-looking 
creature,  with  a beautiful  child  in  her 
lap.  She  seems  to  belong  to  the  com- 
pany, but  is  so  strangely  unlike  it.  She 
has  such  a pretty,  quiet  face  and  voice, 
and  is  so  proud  to  hear  the  child  ad- 
mired, — thinks  you  would  hardly  be- 
lieve. that  he  is  only  nine  months  old  ! 
Is  she  as  bad  as  the  rest,  I wonder? 
Inspectorial  experience  does  not  engen- 
der a belief  contrariwise,  but  prompts 


the  answer,  Not  a ha’p’orth  of  differ- 
ence ! 

There  is  a piano  going  in  the  old  F arm 
House  as  we  approach.  It  stops. 
Landlady  appears.  Has  no  objections, 
Mr.  Field,  to  gentlemen  being  brought, 
but  wishes  it  were  at  earlier  hours,  the 
lodgers  complaining  of  ill-conwenience. 
Inspector  Field  is  polite  and  soothing, 
— knows  his  woman  and  the  sex.  Dep- 
uty (a  girl  in  this  case)  shows  the  way 
up  a heavy  broad  old  staircase,  kept 
very  clean,  into  clean  rooms  where 
many  sleepers  are,  and  where  painted 
panels  of  an  older  time  look  strangely 
on  the  truckle-beds.  The  sight  of 
whitewash  and  the  smell  of  soap  — two 
things  we  seem  by  this  time  to  have 
parted  from  in  infancy  — make  the  old 
Farm  House  a phenomenon,  and  con- 
nect themselves  with  the  so  curiously 
misplaced  picture  of  the  pretty  mother 
and  child  long  after  we  have  left  it,  — 
long  after  we  have  left,  besides,  the 
neighboring  nook  with  something  of  a 
rustic  flavor  in  it  yet,  where  once,  be- 
neath a low  wooden  colonnade  still 
standing  as  of  yore,  the  eminent  Jack 
Sheppard  condescended  to  regale  him- 
self, and  where,  now,  two  old  bachelor 
brothers  in  broad  hats  (who  are  whis- 
pered in  the  Mint  to  have  made  a com- 
pact long  ago  that  if  either  should  ever 
marry,  he  must  forfeit  his  share  of  the 
joint  property)  still  keep  a sequestered 
tavern,  and  sit  o’  nights  smoking  pipes 
in  the  bar,  among  ancient  bottles  and 
glasses,  as  our  eyes  behold  them. 

How  goes  the  night  now?  Saint 
George  of  Southwark  answers  with 
twelve  blows  upon  his  bell.  Parker, 
good  night,  for  Williams  is  already 
waiting  over  in  the  region  of  Ratcliffe 
Highway,  to  show  the  houses  where 
the  sailors  dance. 

I should  like  to  know  where  Inspec- 
tor Field  was  born.  In  Ratcliffe  High- 
way, I would  have  answered  with  confi- 
dence, but  for  his  being  equally  at  home 
wherever  we  go.  He  does  not  trouble 
his  head,  as  I do,  about  the  river  at 
night.  He  does  not  care  for  its  creep- 
ing, black  and  silent,  on  our  right  there, 
rushing  through  sluice-gates,  lapping  at 
piles  and  posts  and  iron  rings,  hiding 
strange  things  in  its  mud,  running  awa* 


ON  DUTY  WITH  INSPECTOR  FIELD . 


427 


with  suicides  and  accidentally  drowned 
bodies  faster  than  midnight  funeral 
should,  and  acquiring  such  various  ex- 
perience between  its  cradle  and  its 
grave.  It  has  no  mystery  for  him.  Is 
there  not  the  Thames  Police  ! 

Accordingly,  Williams,  lead  the  way. 
We  are  a little  late,  for  some  of  the 
houses  are  already  closing.  No  matter. 
You  show  us  plenty.  All  the  landlords 
know  Inspector  Field.  All  pass  him, 
freely  and  good-humoredly,  whereso- 
ever he  wants  to  go.  So  thoroughly 
are  all  these  houses  open  to  him  and 
our  local  guide,  that,  granting  that  sail- 
ors must  be  entertained  in  their  own 
way,  — as  I suppose  they  must,  and 
have  a right  to  be,  — I hardly  know  how 
such  places  could  be  better  regulated. 
Not  that  I call  the  company  very  se- 
lect, or  the  dancing  very  graceful, — 
even  so  graceful  as  that  of  the  German 
Sugar  Bakers,  whose  assembly,  by  the 
Minories,  we  stopped  to  visit, — but 
there  is  watchful  maintenance  of  order 
in  every . house,  and  swift  expulsion 
where  need  is.  Even  in  the  midst  of 
drunkenness,  both  of  the  lethargic  kind 
and  the  lively,  there  is  sharp  landlord 
supervision,  and  pockets  are  in  less 
peril  than  out  of  doors.  These  houses 
show,  singularly,  how  much  of  the  pic- 
turesque and  romantic  there  truly  is  in 
the  sailor,  requiring  to  be  especially  ad- 
dressed. All  the  songs  (sung  in  a hail- 
storm of  half-pence,  which  are  pitched 
at  the  singer  without  the  least  tender- 
ness for  the  time  or  tune,  — mostly  from 
great  rolls  of  copper  carried  for  the  pur- 
pose, — and  which  he  occasionally 
dodges  like  shot  as  they  fly  near  his 
head)  are  of  the  sentimental  sea  sort. 
All  the  rooms  are  decorated  with  nau- 
tical subjects.  Wrecks,  engagements, 
ships  on  fire,  ships  passing  lighthouses 
on  iron-bound  coasts,  ships  blowing  up, 
ships  going  down,  ships’ running  ashore, 
men  lying  out  upon  the  main  yard  in  a 
gale  of  wind,  sailors  and  ships  in  every 
variety  of  peril,  constitute  the  illustra- 
tions of  fact.  Nothing  can  be  done  in 
the  fanciful  way,  without  a thumping 
boy  upon  a scaly  dolphin. 

How  goes  the  night  now?  Past  one. 
Black  and  Green  are  waiting  in  White- 
chapel to  unveil  the  mysteries  of  Went- 


worth Street.  Williams,  the  best  of 
friends  must  part.  Adieu ! 

Are  not  Black  and  Green  readjpat 
the  appointed  place?  O yes!  They 
glide  out  of  shadow  as  we  stop.  Im- 
perturbable Black  opens  the  cab  door ; 
Imperturbable  Green  takes  a mental 
note  of  the  driver.  Both  Green  and 
Black  then-  open  each  his  flaming  eye, 
and  marshal  us  the  way  that  we  are 
going. 

The  lodging-house  we  want  is  hidden 
in  a maze  of  streets  and  courts.  It  is 
fast  shut.  We  knock  at  the  door,  and 
stand  hushed,  looking  up  for  a light  at 
one  or  other  of  the  begrimed  old  lattice 
windows  in  its  ugly  front,  when  another 
constable  comes  up,  — supposes  that  we 
want  “to  see  the  school.”  Detective 
Sergeant  meanwhile  has  got  over  a rail, 
opened  a gate,  dropped  down  an  area, 
overcome  some  other  little  obstacles, 
and  tapped  at  a window.  Now  returns. 
The  landlord  will  send  a deputy  imme- 
diately. 

Deputy  is  heard  to  stumble  out  of  bed. 
Deputy  lights  a candle,  draws  back  a 
bolt  or  two,  and  appears  at  the  door. 
Deputy  is  a shivering  shirt  and  trou- 
sers by  no  means  clean,  a yawning 
face,  a shock  head  much  confused  ex- 
ternally and  internally.  We  want  to 
look  for  some  one.  You  may  go  up 
with  the  light,  and  take  ’em  all,  if  you 
like,  says  Deputy,  resigning  it,  and  sit- 
ting down  upon  a bench  in  the  kitch- 
en, with  his  ten  fingers  sleepily  twist- 
ing in  his  hair. 

Halloa  here  ! Now  then  ! Show  your- 
selves. That’ll  do.  It’s  not  you. 
Don’t  disturb  yourself  any  more  ! So 
on,  through  a labyrinth  of  airless  rooms, 
each  man  responding,  like  a wild  beast, 
to  the  keeper  who  has  tamed  him,  and 
who  goes  into  his  cage.  What,  you 
have  n’t  found  him,  then  ? says  Depu- 
ty, when  we  came  down.  A woman, 
mysteriously  sitting  up  all  night  in  the 
dark  by  the  smouldering  ashes  of  the 
kitchen  fire,  says  it ’s  only  tramps  and 
cadgers  here : it ’s  gonophs  over  the 
way.  A man,  mysteriously  walking 
about  the  kitchen  all  night  in  the  dark, 
bids  her  hold  her  tongue.  We  come 
out.  Deputy  fastens  the  door  and  goes 
to  bed  again. 


428 


ON  DUTY  WITH  INSPECTOR  FIELD . 


Black  and  Green,  you  know  Bark, 
lodging-house  keeper  and  receiver  of 
sflflen  goods?  — O yes,  Inspector  Field. 

— Go  to  Bark’s  next. 

Bark  sleeps  in  an  inner  wooden  hutch, 
near  his  street  door.  As  we  parley  on 
the  step  with  Bark’s  Deputy,  Bark 
growls  in  his  bed.  We  enter,  and 
Bark  flies  out  of  bed.  Bark  is  a red 
villain  and  a wrathful,  with  a sanguine 
throat  that  looks  very  much  as  if  it 
were  expressly  made  for  hanging,  as 
he  stretches  it  out,  in  pale  defiance, 
over  the  half-door  of  his  hutch.  Bark’s 
parts  of  speech  are  of  an  awful  sort, 

— principally  adjectives.  I won’t,  says 
Bark,  have  no  adjective  police  and  ad- 
jective strangers  in  my  adjective  prem- 
ises ! I won’t,  by  adjective  and  sub- 
stantive ! Give  me  my  trousers,  and  I ’ll 
send  the  whole  adjective  police  to  ad- 
jective and  substantive  ! Give  me,  says 
Bark,  my  adjective  trousers  ! I ’il  put  an 
adjective  knife  in  the  whole  bileing  of 
’em.  I ’ll  punch  their  adjective  heads. 
I ’ll  rip  up  their  adjective  substantives. 
Give  me  my  adjective  trousers  ! says 
Bark,  and  I ’ll  spile  the  bileing  of  ’em  ! 

Now,  Bark,  what’s  the  use  of  this? 
Here ’s  Black  and  Green,  Detective 
Sergeant,  and  Inspector  Field.  You 
know  we  will  come  in. — I know  you 
won’t ! says  Bark.  Somebody  give  me 
my  adjective  trousers  ! Bark’s  trousers 
seem  difficult  to  find.  He  calls  for  them, 
as  Hercules  might  for  his  club.  Give 
me  my  adjective  trousers  ! says  Bark, 
and  I ’ll  spile,  the  bileing  of  ’em  ! 

Inspector  Field  holds  that  it ’s  all  one 
whether  Bark  likes  the  visit  or  don’t  like 
it.  He,  Inspector  Field,  is  an  Inspec- 
tor of  the  Detective  Police,  Detective 
Sergeant  is  Detective  Sergeant,  Black 
and  Green  are  constables  in  uniform. 
Don’t  you  be  a fool,  Bark,  or  you 
know  it  will  be  the  w'orse  for  you.  — I 
don’t  care,  says  Bark.  Give  me  my 
adjective  trousers  ! 

At  two  o’clock  in  the  morning,  we  de- 
scend into  Bark’s  low  kitchen,  leaving 
Bark  to  foam  at  the  mouth  above,  and 
Imperturbable  Black  and  Green  to  look 
at  him.  Bark’s  kitchen  is  crammed  full 
of  thieves,  holding  a conversazione  there 
by  lamp-light.  It  is  by  far  the  most  dan- 
gerous assembly  we  have  seen  yet.  Stim- 


ulated by  the  ravings  of  Bark,  above, 
their  looks  are  sullen,  but  not  a man 
speaks.  We  ascend  again.  Bark  has 
got  his  trousers,  and  is  in  a state  of 
madness  in  the  passage,  with  his  back 
against  a door  that  shuts  off  the  upper 
staircase.  We  observe,  in  other  re- 
spects, a ferocious  individuality  in  Bark. 
Instead  of  “ Stop  Thief  !”  on  his  linen, 
he  prints  “ Stolen  from  Bark’s  ! ” 

Now,  Bark,  we  are  going  up  stairs  ! — 
No,  you  ain’t! — You  refuse  admission 
to  the  Police,  do  you,  Bark  ! — Yes,  I 
do  ! I refuse  it  to  all  the  adjective  po- 
lice and  to  all  the  adjective  substan- 
tives. If  the  adjective  coves  in  the 
kitchen  was  men,  they ’d  come  up  now, 
and  do  for  you  ! Shut  me  that  there 
door  ! says  Bark,  and  suddenly  we  are 
enclosed  in  the  passage.  They ’d  come 
up  and  do  for  you  ! cries  Bark,  and 
waits.  Not  a sound  in  the  kitchen  ! 
They ’d  come  up  and  do  for  you  ! cries 
Bark  again,  and  waits.  Not  a sound  in 
the  kitchen  ! We  are  shut  up,  half  a doz- 
en of  us,  in  Bark’s  house  in  the  inner- 
most recesses  of  the  worst  part  of  Lon- 
don, in  the  dead  of  the  night,  — the 
house  is  crammed  with  notorious  rob- 
bers and  ruffians,  — and  not  a man  stirs. 
No,  Bark.  They  know  the  weight  of 
the  law,  and  they  know  Inspector  Field 
and  Co.  too  well. 

We  leave  bully  Bark  to  subside  at  lei- 
sure out  of  his  passion  and  his  trousers, 
and,  I dare  say,  to  be  inconveniently  re- 
minded of  this  little  brush  before  long. 
Black  and  Green  do  ordinary  duty  here, 
and  look  serious. 

As  to  White,  who  waits  on  Holbom 
Hill  to  show  the  courts  that  are  eaten 
out  of  Rotten  Gray’s  Inn  Lane,  where 
other  lodging-houses  are,  and  where  (in 
one  blind  alley)  the  Thieves’  Kitchen 
and  Seminary  for  the  teaching  of  the 
art  to  children  is,  the  night  has  so 
worn  away,  being  now 

“ Almost  at  odds  with  morning,  which  is 
which,” 

that  they  are  quiet,  and  no  light  shines 
through  the  chinks  in  the  shutters.  As 
undistinctive  Death  will  come  here, 
one  day,  sleep  comes  now'.  The  wick- 
ed cease  from  troubling  sometimes, 
even  in  this  life. 


DOWN  WITH  THE  TIDE. 


429 


DOWN  WITH  THE  TIDE. 


A very  dark  night  it  was,  and  bitter 
cold  ; the  east  wind  blowing  bleak,  and 
bringing  with  it  stinging  particles  from 
marsh  and  moor  and  fen,  — from  the 
Great  Desert  and  Old  Egypt,  may  be. 
Some  of  the  component  parts  of  the 
sharp-edged  vapor  that  came  flying  up 
the  Thames  at  London  might  be  mum- 
my dust,  dry  atoms  from  the  Temple 
at  Jerusalem,  camels’  footprints,  croco- 
diles’ hatching-places,  loosened  grains 
of  expression  from  the  visages  of  blunt- 
nosed  sphinxes,  waifs  and  strays  from 
caravans  of  turbaned  merchants,  vegeta- 
tion from  jungles,  frozen  snow  from  the 
Himalayas.  Oh  ! it  was  very,  very  dark 
upon  the  Thames,  and  it  was  bitter,  bit- 
ter cold. 

“And  yet,”  said  the  voice  within  the 
great  pea-coat  at  my  side,  “ you  ’ll 
have  seen  a good  many  rivers  too,  I 
dare  say?” 

“Truly,”  said  I,  “when  I come 
to  think  of  it,  not  a few!  From  the 
Niagara  downward  to  the  mountain 
rivers  of  Italy,  which  are  like  the  na- 
tional spirit,  — very  tame,  or  chafing 
suddenly  and  bursting  bounds,  only  to 
dwindle  away  again.  The  Moselle,  and 
the  Rhine,  and  the  Rhone ; and  the 
Seine,  and  the  Saone ; and  the  St.  Law- 
rence, Mississippi,  and  Ohio;  and  the 
Tiber,  the  Po,  and  the  Arno  ; and  the  — ” 

Pea-coat  coughing,  as  if  he  had  had 
enough  of  that,  I said  no  more.  I 
could  have  carried  the  catalogue  on  to  a 
teasing  length,  though,  if  I had  been  in 
the  cruel  mind. 

“ And  after  all,”  said  he,  “this  looks 
so  dismal  ? ” 

“So  awful,”  I returned,  “at  night. 
The  Seine  at  Paris  is  very  gloomy  too, 
at  such  a time,  and  is  probably  the  scene 
of  far  more  crime  and  greater  wicked- 
ness ; but  this  river  looks  so  broad  and 
vast,  so  murky  and  silent,  seems  such 
an  image  of  death  in  the  midst  of  the 
great  city’s  life,  that — ” 


— That  Pea-coat  coughed  again.  He 
could  not  stand  my  holding  forth. 

We  were  in  a four-oared  Thames 
Police  Galley,  lying  on  our  oars  in  the 
deep  shadow  *>f  Southwark  Bridge,  — 
under  the  corner  arch  on  the  Surrey 
side,  — having  come  down  with  the  tide 
from  Vauxhall.  We  were  fain  to  hold 
on  pretty  tight,  though  close  in  shore, 
for  the  river  was  swollen,  and  the  tide 
running  down  very  strong.  We  were 
watching  certain  water-rats  of  human 
growth,  and  lay  in  the  deep  shade  as 
quiet  as  mice,  our  light  hidden  and  our 
scraps  of  conversation  carried  on  in 
whispers.  Above  us,  the  massive  iron 
girders  of  the  arch  were  faintly  visible, 
and  below  us  its  ponderous  shadow 
seemed  to  sink  down  to  the  bottom  of 
the  stream. 

We  had  been  lying  here  some  half 
an  hour.  With  our  backs  to  the 
wind,  it  is  true  ; but  the  wind,  being 
in  a determined  temper,  blew  straight 
through  us,  and  would  not  take  the 
trouble  to  go  round.  I would  have 
boarded  a fireship  to  get  into  action, 
and  mildly  suggested  as  much  to  my 
friend  Pea. 

“No  doubt,”  says  he  as  patiently 
as  possible;  “but  shore-going  tactics 
would  n’t  do  with  us.  River  thieves  can 
always  get  rid  of  stolen  property  in  a 
moment  by  dropping  it  overboard. 
We  want  to  take  them  with  the  prop- 
erty, so  we  lurk  about  and  come  out 
upon  ’em  sharp.  If  they  see  us  or  hear 
us,  over  it  goes.” 

Pea’s  wisdom  being  indisputable, 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  sit  there 
and  be  blown  through,  for  another  half- 
hour.  The  water-rats  thinking  it  wise 
to  abscond  at  the  end  of  that  time  with- 
out commission  of  felony,  we  shot  out, 
disappointed,  with  the  tide. 

“Grim  they  look,  don’t  they?”  said 
Pea,  seeing  me  glance  over  my  shoulder 
at  the  lights  upon  the  bridge,  and  down- 


43° 


DOWN  WITH  THE  TIDE. 


ward  at  their  long,  crooked  reflections 
in  the  river. 

“Very,”  said  I,  “and  make  one 
think  with  a shudder  of  Suicides. 
What  a night  for  a dreadful  leap  from 
that  parapet  ! ” 

“Ay,  but  Waterloo’s  the  favorite 
bridge  for  making  holes  in  the  water 
from,”  returned  Pea.  “By  the  by  — 
avast  pulling,  lads  ! — would  you  like  to 
speak  to  Waterloo  on  the  subject  ? ” 

My  face  confessing  a surprised  desire 
to  have  some  friendly  conversation  with 
Waterloo  Bridge,  and  my  friend  Pea 
being  the  most  obliging  of  men,  we  put 
about,  pulled  out  of  the  force  of  the 
stream,  and,  in  place  of  going  at  great 
speed  with  the  tide,  began  to  strive 
against  it,  close  in  shore,  again.  Every 
color  but  black  seemed  to  have  depart- 
ed from  the  world.  The  air  was  black, 
the  water  was  black,  the  barges-  and 
hulks  were  black,  the  piles  were  black, 
the  buildings  were  black,  the  shadows 
were  only  a deeper  shade  of  black  upon 
a black  ground.  Here  and  there,  a 
coal  fire  in  an  iron  cresset  blazed  upon 
a wharf ; but  one  knew  that  it  too  had 
been  black  a little  while  ago,  and  would 
be  black  again  soon.  Uncomfortable 
rushes  of  water,  suggestive  of  gurgling 
and  drowning,  ghostly  rattlings  of  iron 
chains,  dismal  clankings  of  discordant 
engines,  formed  the  music  that  accom- 
panied the  dip  of  our  oars  and  their  rat- 
tling in  the  rowlocks.  Even  the  noises 
had  a black  sound  to  me,  — as  the  trum- 
pet sounded  red  to  the  blind  man. 

Our  dexterous  boat’s  crew'  made 
nothing  of  the  tide,  and  pulled  us 
gallantly  up  to  Waterloo  Bridge.  Here 
Pea  and  I disembarked,  passed  under 
the  black  stone  archway,  and  climbed 
the  steep  stone  steps.  Within  a few 
feet  of  their  summit,  Pea  presented  me 
to  Waterloo  (or  an  eminent  toll-taker 
representing  that  structure),  muffled  up 
to  the  eyes  in  a thick  shawl,  and  amply 
great-coated  and  fur-capped. 

Waterloo  received  us  with  cordiality, 
and  observed  of  the  night  that  it  w'as 
“a  Searcher.”  He  had  been  originally 
called  the  Strand  Bridge,  he  informed 
us,  but  had  received  his  present  name 
at  the  suggestion  of  the  proprietors, 
when  Parliament  had  resolved  to  vote 


three  hundred  thousand  pound  for  the 
erection  of  a monument  in  honor  of  the 
victory.  Parliament  took  the  hint  (said 
Waterloo,  with  the  least  flavor  of  mis- 
anthropy) and  saved  the  money.  Of 
course  the  late  Duke  of  Wellington  was 
the  first  passenger,  and  of  course  he  paid 
his  penny,  and  of  course  a noble  lord 
preserved  it  evermore.  The  treadle  and 
index  at  the  toll-house  (a  most  ingen- 
ious contrivance  for  rendering  fraud 
impossible),  were  invented  by  Mr.  Leth- 
bridge, then  property-man  at  Drury 
Lane  Theatre. 

Was  it  suicide,  we  wanted  to  know 
about?  said  Waterloo.  Ha  ! Well,  he 
had  seen  a good  deal  of  that  w'ork,  he 
did  assure  us.  He  had  prevented  some. 
Why,  one  day  a woman,  poorish-look- 
ing,  came  in  between  the  hatch,  slapped 
down  a penny,  and  wanted  to  go  on 
without  the  change  ! Waterloo  suspect- 
ed this,  and  says  to  his  mate,  “Give  an 
eye  to  the  gate,”  and  bolted  after  her. 
She  had  got  to  the  third  seat  between 
the  piers,  and  was  on  the  parapet  just 
a going  over,  when  he  caught  her  and 
gave  her  in  charge.  At  the  police  office 
next  morning,  she  said  it  was  along  of 
trouble  and  a bad  husband. 

“ Likely  enough.”  observed  Waterloo 
to  Pea  and  myself,  as  he  adjusted  his 
chin  in  his  shawl.  “ There ’s  a deal  of 
trouble  about,  you  see,  — and  bad  hus- 
bands too  ! ” 

Another  time,  a young  woman  at 
twelve  o’clock  in  the  open  day  got 
through,  darted  along,  and,  before 
Waterloo  could  come  near  her,  jumped 
upon  the  parapet,  and  shot  herself  over 
sideways.  Alarm  given,  watermen  put 
off,  lucky  escape.  Clothes  buoyed  her 
up. 

“ This  is  where  it  is,”  said  Waterloo. 
“If  people  jump  off  straight  forwards 
from  the  middle  of  the  parapet  of  the 
bays  of  the  bridge,  they  are  seldom 
killed  by  drowning,  but  are  smashed, 
poor  things  ; that ’s  what  they  are ; they 
clash  themselves  upon  the  buttress  of 
the  bridge.  But  you  jump  off,”  said 
Waterloo  to  me,  putting  his  forefinger 
in  a button-hole  of  my  great-coat,  — “ you 
jump  off  from  the  side  of  the  bay,  and 
you  ’ll  tumble,  true,  into  the  stream 
under  the  arch.  What  you  have  got  to 


DOWN  WITH  THE  TIDE. 


43i 


do  is,  to  mind  how  you  jump  in  ! There 
was  poor  Tom  Steele  from  Dublin. 
Didn’t  dive!  Bless  you,  did  n’t  dive 
at  all ! Fell  down  so  flat  into  the  water, 
that  he  broke  his  breast-bone,  and  lived 
two  days  ! ” 

I asked  Waterloo  if  there  were  a fa- 
vorite side  of  his  bridge  for  this  dreadful 
purpose?  He  reflected,  and  thought 
yes,  there  was.  He  should  say  the 
Surrey  side. 

Three  decent  - looking  men  went 
through  one  day,  soberly  and  quietly, 
and  went  on  abreast  for  about  a dozen 
yards,  when  the  middle  one,  he  sung 
out,  all  ofa  sudden,  “ Here  goes,  Jack  ! ” 
and  was  over  in  a minute. 

Body  found?  Well.  Waterloo 
did  n ’t  rightly  recollect  about  that. 
They  were  compositors,  they  _ were. 

He  considered  it  astonishing  how 
quick  people  were  ! Why,  there  was  a 
cab  came  up  one  Boxing-night,  with  a 
young  woman  in  it,  who  looked,  accord- 
ing to  Waterloo’s  opinion  of  her,  a lit- 
tle the  worse  for  liquor;  very  hand- 
some she  was,  too,  — very  handsome. 
She  stopped  the  cab  at  the  gate,  and 
said  she ’d  pay  the  cabman  then,  which 
she  did.  though  there  was  a little  hank- 
ering about  the  fare,  because  at  first 
she  didn’t  seem  quite  to  know  where 
she  wanted  to  be  drove  to.  However, 
she  paid  the  man,  and  the  toll  too,  and, 
looking  Waterloo  in  the  face,  (he  thought 
she  knew  him,  don’t  you  see!)  said, 
“ I ’ll  finish  it  somehow  ! ” Well,  the 
cab  went  off,  leaving  Waterloo  a little 
doubtful  in  his  mind,  and  while  it  was 
going  on  at  full  speed  the  young  woman 
jumped  out,  never  fell,  hardly  staggered, 
ran  along  the  bridge  pavement  a little 
way,  passing  several  people,  and  jumped 
over  from  the  second  opening.  At  the 
inquest  it  was  give  in  evidence  that 
she  had  been  quarrelling  at  the  Hero  of 
Waterloo,  and  it  was  brought  in,  jeal- 
ousy. (One  of  the  results  of  Waterloo’s 
experience  was,  that  there  was  a deal  of 
jealousy  about.) 

“Do  we  ever  get  madmen?”  said 
Waterloo,  in  answer  to  an  inquiry  of 
mine.  “Well,  we  do  get  madmen. 
Yes,  we  have  had  one  or  two  ; escaped 
from  ’Sylums,  I suppose.  One  hadn’t 
a half-penny ; and  because  1 would  n’t 


let  him  through,  he  went  back  a little 
way,  stooped  down,  took  a run,  and 
butted  at  the  hatch  like  a ram.  He 
smashed  his  hat  rarely,  but  his  head 
didn’t  seem  no  wmrse,  in  my  opinion, 
on  account  of  his  being  wrong  in  it 
afore.  Sometimes  people  haven’t  got 
a half-penny.  If  they  are  really  tired 
and  poor,  we  give  ’em  one  and  let  ’em 
through.  Other  people  will  leave  things, 
— pocket-handkerchiefs  mostly.  I have 
taken  cravats  and  gloves,  pocket-knives, 
toothpicks,  studs,  shirt-pins,  rings  (gen- 
erally from  young  gents,  early  in  the 
morning),  but  handkerchiefs  is  the  gen- 
eral thing.” 

“Regular  customers?”  said  Water- 
loo. “Lord,  yes!  We  have  regular 
customers.  One,  such  a worn-out,  used- 
up  old  file  as  you  can  scarcely  picter, 
comes  from  the  Surrey  side  as  regular 
as  ten  o’clock  at  night  comes ; and 
goes  over,  I think,  to  some  flash  house 
on  the  Middlesex  side.  He  comes 
back,  he  does,  as  reg’lar  as  the  clock 
strikes  three  in  the  morning,  and  then 
can  hardly  drag  one  of  his  old  legs 
after  the  other.  He  always  turns  down 
the  water-stairs,  comes  up  again,  and 
then  goes  on  down  the  Waterloo  Road. 
He  always  does  the  same  thing,  and 
never  varies  a minute.  Does  it  every 
night, — even  Sundays.” 

I asked  Waterloo  if  he  had  given  his 
mind  to  the  possibility  of  this  particular 
customer  going  down  the  water-stairs 
at  three  o’clock  some  morning,  and 
never  coming  up  again?  He  didn’t 
think  that  of  him,  he  replied.  In  fact, 
it  was  Waterloo’s  opinion,  founded  on 
his  observation  of  that  file,  that  he 
know’d  a trick  worth  two  of  it. 

“ There’s  another  queer  old  custom- 
er,” said  Waterloo,  “ comes  over,  as 
punctual  as  the  almanac,  at  eleven 
o’clock  on  the  sixth  of  January,  at 
eleven  o’clock  on  the  fifth  of  April,  at 
eleven  o’clock  on  the  sixth  of  July, 
at  eleven  o’clock  on  the  tenth  of  Octo- 
ber. Drives  a shaggy  little  rough  pony, 
in  a sort  of  a rattle-trap  arm-chair  sort 
of  a thing.  White  hair  he  has,  and 
white  whiskers,  and  muffles  himself 
up  with  all  manner  of  shawls.  He 
comes  back  again  the  same  afternoon, 
and  we  never  see  more  of  him  for  three 


432 


DOWN  WITH  THE  TIDE . 


months.  He  is  a captain  in  the  navy 
— retired  — wery  old  — wery  odd  — and 
served  with  Lord  Nelson.  He  is  par- 
ticular about  drawing  his  pension  at 
Somerset  House  afore  the  clock  strikes 
twelve  every  quarter.  I have  heerd 
say  that  he  thinks  it  would  n’t  be  ac- 
cording to  the  Act  of  Parliament,  if  he 
did  n’t  draw  it  afore  twelve.” 

Having  related  these  anecdotes  in  a 
natural  manner,  which  was  the  best 
warranty  in  the  world  for  their  genuine 
nature,  our  friend  Waterloo  was  sink- 
ing deep  into  his  shawl  again,  as  hav- 
ing exhausted  his  communicative  pow- 
ers and  taken  in  enough  east  wind, 
when  my  other  friend  Pea  in  a moment 
brought  him  to  the  surface  by  asking 
whether  he  had  not  been  occasionally 
the  subject  of  assault  and  battery  in 
the*  execution  of  his  duty.  Waterloo, 
recovering  his  spirits,  instantly  dashed 
into  a new  branch  of  his  subject.  We 
learned  how  “ both  these  teeth  ” — here 
he  pointed  to  the  places  where  two 
front  teeth  were  not  — were  knocked 
out  by  an  ugly  customer  who  one  night 
made  a dash  at  him  (Waterloo)  while 
his  (the  ugly  customer’s)  pal  and  coad- 
jutor made  a dash  at  the  toll-taking 
apron  where  the  money-pockets  were  : 
how  Waterloo,  letting  the  teeth  go  (to 
Blazes,  he  observed  indefinitely)  grap- 
pled with  the  apron-seizer,  permitting 
the  ugly  one  to  run  away  ; and  how  he 
saved  the  bank,  and  captured  his  man, 
and  consigned  him  to  fine  and  impris- 
onment. Also  how,  on  another  night, 
“ a Cove  ” laid  hold  of  Waterloo,  then 
presiding  at  the  horse  gate  of  his  bridge, 
and  threw  him  unceremoniously  over 
his  knee,  having  first  cut  his  head  open 
with  his  whip.  How  Waterloo  “got 
right,”  and  started  after  the  Cove  all 
down  the  Waterloo  Road,  through 
Stamford  Street,  and  round  to  the  foot 
of  Blackfriars  Bridge,  where  the  Cove 
“ cut  into”  a public-house.  How  Wa- 
terloo cut  in  too ; but  how  an  aider 
and  abettor  of  the  Cove’s,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  taking  a promiscuous  drain 
at  the  bar,  stopped  Waterloo ; and  the 
Cove  cut  out  again,  ran  across  the  road 
down  Holland  Street,  and  where  not, 
and  into  a beer-shop.  How  Waterloo, 
breaking  away  from  his  detainer,  was 


close  upon  the  Cove’s  heels,  attended 
by  no  end  of  people  who,  seeing  him 
running  with  the  blood  streaming  down 
his  face,  thought  something  worse  was 
“up,”  and  roared  Fire  ! and  Murder  ! 
on  the  hopeful  chance  of  the  matter 
in  hand  being  one  or  both.  How  the 
Cove  was  ignominiously  taken,  in  a 
shed  where  he  had  run  to  hide,  and 
how  at  the  Police  Court  they  at  first 
wanted  to  make  a sessions  job  of  it  ; 
but  eventually  Waterloo  was  allowed 
to  be  “spoke  to,”  and  the  Cove  made 
it  square  with  Waterloo  by  paying  his 
doctor]  s bill  (W.  was  laid  up  for  a week) 
and  giving  him  “ three,  ten.”  Like- 
wise we  learnt  what  we  had  faintly  sus- 
pected before,  that  your  sporting  ama- 
teur on  the  Derby  day,  albeit  a captain, 
can  be  — “if  he  be,”  as  Captain  Boba- 
dil  observes,  “so  generously  minded” 
— anything  but  a man  of  honor  and  a 
gentleman  ; not  sufficiently  gratifying 
his  nice  sense  of  humor  by  the  witty 
scattering  of  flour  and  rotten  eggs  on 
obtuse  civilians,  but  requiring  the  fur- 
ther excitement  of  “bilking  the  toll,” 
and  “pitching  into”  Waterloo,  and 
“ cutting  him  about  the  head  with  his 
whip  ” ; finally  being,  when  called  upon 
to  answer  for  the  assault,  what  Water- 
loo described  as  “ Minus,”  or,  as  I 
humbly  conceived  it,  not  to  be  found. 
Likewise  did  Waterloo  inform  us,  in 
reply  to  my  inquiries,  admiringly  and 
deferentially  preferred  through  my 
friend  Pea,  that  the  takings  at  the 
Bridge  had  more  than  doubled  in 
amount,  since  the  reduction  of  the  toll 
one  half.  And  being  asked  if  the  afore- 
said takings  included  much  bad  money, 
Waterloo  responded,  with  a look  far 
deeper  than  the  deepest  part  of  the  river, 
he  should  think  not  ! — and  so  retired 
into  his  shawl  for  the  rest  of  the  night. 

Then  did  Pea  and  I once  more  em- 
bark in  our  four-oared  galley,  and  glide 
swiftly  down  the  river  with  the  tide. 
And  while  the  shrewd  East  rasped  and 
notched  us,  as  with  jagged  razors,  did 
my  friend  Pea  impart  to  me  confidences 
of  interest  relating  to  the  Thames 
Police  ; we  betweenwhiles  finding 
“duty  boats”  hanging  in  dark  corners 
under  banks,  like  weeds,  — our  own 
was  a “ supervision  boat  ” — and  the}'. 


DOWN  WITH  THE  TIDE. 


433 


as  they  reported  “ All  right ! ” flashing 
their  hidden  light  on  us,  and  we  flashing 
ours  on  them.  These  duty  boats  had 
one  sitter  in  each  ; an  Inspector ; and 
were  rowed  “Ran-dan,”  which  — for 
the  information  of  those  who  never 
graduated,  as  I was  once  proud  to  do, 
under  a fireman-waterman  and  winner 
of  Kean’s  Prize  Wherry,  who,  in  the 
course  of  his  tuition,  took  hundreds  of 
gallons  of  rum  and  egg  (at  my  expense) 
at  the  various  houses  of  note  above 
and  below  bridge  ; not  by  any  means 
because  he  liked  it,  but  to  cure  a weak- 
ness in  his  liver,  for  which  the  faculty 
had  particularly  recommended  it  — may 
be  explained  as  rowed  by  three  men, 
two  pulling  an  oar  each,  and  one  a pair 
of  sculls. 

Thus,  floating  down  our  black  high- 
way, sullenly  frowned  upon  by  the  knit- 
ted brows  of  Blackfriars,  Southwark, 
and  London,  each  in  his  lowering  turn, 
I was  shown  by  my  friend  Pea  that 
there  are,  in  the  Thames  Police  Force, 
whose  district  extends  from  Battersea 
to  Barking  Creek,  ninety-eight  men, 
eight  duty  boats,  and  two  supervision 
boats;  and  that  these  go  about. so  si- 
lently, and  lie  in  wait  in  such  dark  places, 
and  so  seem  to  be  nowhere,  and  so  may 
be  anywhere,  that  they  have  gradually 
become  a police  of  prevention,  keeping 
the  river  almost  clear  of  any  great  crimes, 
even  while  the  increased  vigilance  on 
shore  has  made  it  much  harder  than  of 
yore  to  live  by  “thieving”  in  the  streets. 
And  as  to  the  various  kinds  of  water- 
thieves,  said  my  friend  Pea,  there  were 
the  Tier-rangers,  who  silently  dropped 
alongside  the  tiers  of  shipping  in  the 
Pool,  by  night,  and  who,  going  to  the 
companion-head,  listened  fpr  two  snores, 
— snore  number  one,  the  skipper’s ; 
snore  number  two,  the  mate’s,  — mates 
and  skippers  always  snoring  great  guns, 
and  being  dead  sure  to  be  hard  at  it  if 
they  had  turned  in  and  were  asleep. 
Hearing  the  double  fire,  down  went  the 
Rangers  into  the  skippers’  cabins  ; 
groped  for  the  skippers’  inexpressibles, 
which  it  was  the  custom  of  those  gentle- 
men to  shake  off,  watch,  money,  braces, 
boots,  and  all  together,  on  the  floor ; and 
therewith  made  off  as  silently  as  might 
be.  Then  there  were  the  Lumpers,  or 
28 


laborers  employed  to  unload  vessels. 
They  wore  loose  canvas  jackets  with  a 
broad  hem  in  the  bottom,  turned  inside, 
so  as  to  form  a large  circular  pocket  in 
which  they  could  conceal,  like  clowns 
in  pantomimes,  packages  of  surprising 
sizes.  A great  deal  of  property  was 
stolen  in  this  manner  (Pea  confided  to 
me)  from  steamers ; first,  because  steam- 
ers carry  a larger  number  of  small  pack- 
ages than  other  ships ; next,  because  of 
the  extreme  rapidity  with  which  they 
are  obliged  to  be  unladen  for  their 
return  voyages.  The  Lumpers  dispose 
of  their  booty  easily  to  marine-store 
dealers,  and  the  only  remedy  to  be  sug- 
gested is  that  marine-store  shops  should 
be  licensed,  and  thus  brought  under  the 
eye  of  the  police  as  rigidly  as  public- 
houses.  Lumpers  also  smuggle  goods 
ashore  for  the  crews  of  vessels.  The 
smuggling  of  tobacco  is  so  considerable 
that  it  is  well  worth  the  while  of  the 
sellers  of  smuggled  tobacco  to  use  hy- 
draulic presses,  to  squeeze  a single 
pound  into  a package  small  enough  to 
be  contained  in  an  ordinary  pocket. 
Next,  said  my  friend  Pea,  there  were 
the  Truckers,  — less  thieves  than  smug- 
glers, whose  business  it  was  to  land 
more  considerable  parcels  of  goods  than 
the  Lumpers  could  manage.  They 
sometimes  sold  articles  of  grocery,  and 
so  forth,  to  the  crews,  in  order  to  cloak 
their  real  calling,  and  get  aboard  with- 
out suspicion.  Many  of  them  had  boats 
of  their  own,  and  made  money.  Be- 
sides these,  there  were  the  Dredger- 
men,  who,  under  pretence  of  dredging 
up  coals  and  such-like  from  the  bottom 
of  the  river,  hung  about  barges  and 
other  undecked  craft,  and  when  they 
saw  an  opportunity,  threw  any  property 
they  could  lay  their  hands  on  over- 
board, in  order  slyly  to  dredge  it  up 
when  the  vessel  was  gone.  Sometimes 
they  dexterously  used  their  dredges  to 
whip  away  anything  that  might  lie  with- 
in reach.  Some  of  them  were  mighty 
neat  at  this,  and  the  accomplishment 
was  called  dry  dredging.  Then,  there 
was  a vast  deal  of  property,  such  as 
copper  nails,  sheathing,  hardwood,  &c., 
habitually  brought  away  by  shipwrights 
and  other  workmen  from  their  employ- 
ers’ yards,  and  disposed  of  to  marine- 


434 


A WALK  IN  A WORKHOUSE. 


store  dealers,  many  of  whom  escaped 
detection  through  hard  swearing,  and 
their  extraordinary  artful . ways  of  ac- 
counting for  the  possession  of  stolen 
property.  Likewise,  there  were  special- 
pleading practitioners,  for  whom  barges 
“drifted  away  of  their  own  selves,5’  — 
they  having  no  hand  in  it,  except  first 
cutting  them  loose,  and  afterwards 
plundering  them,  — innocents,  meaning 
no  harm,  who  had  the  misfortune  to 
observe  those  foundlings  wandering 
about  the  Thames. 

We  were  now  going  in  and  out,  with 
little  noise  and  great  nicety,  among  the 
tiers  of  shipping,  whose  many  hulls, 
lying  close  together,  rose  out  of  the 
water  like  black  streets.  Here  and 
there,  a Scotch,  an  Irish,  or  a foreign 
steamer,  getting  up  her  steam  as  the 
tide  made,  looked,  with  her  great  chim- 
ney and  high  sides,  like  a quiet  factory 
among  the  common  buildings.  Now, 
the  streets  opened  into  clearer  spaces, 
now  contracted  into  alleys ; but  the  tiers 
were  so  like  houses,  in  the  dark,  that  I 
could  almost  have  believed  myself  in 
the  narrower  by-ways  of  Venice.  Every- 
thing was  wonderfully  still ; for  it  want- 
ed full  three  hours  of  flood,  and  nothing 
seemed  awake  but  a dog  here  and  there. 

So  we  took  no  Tier-rangers  captive, 
nor  any  Lumpers,  nor  Truckers,  nor 
Dredgermen,  nor  other  evil-disposed 
person  or  persons  ; but  went  ashore  at 


Wapping,  where  the  old  Thames  Po- 
lice office  is  now  a station-house,  and 
where  the  old  Court,  with  its  cabin 
windows  looking  on.  the  river,  is  a 
quaint  charge  room,  with  nothing  worse 
in  it  usually  than  a stuffed  cat  in  a glass 
case,  and  a portrait,  pleasant  to  behold, 
of  a rare  old  Thames  Police-officer,  Mr. 
Superintendent  Evans,  now  succeeded 
by  his  son.  We  looked  over  the  charge 
books,  admirably  kept,  and  found  the 
prevention  so  good,  that  there  were  not 
five  hundred  entries  (including  drunken 
and  disorderly)  in  a whole  year.  Then 
we  looked  into  the  storeroom,  where 
there  w'as  an  oakum  smell,  and  a nauti- 
cal seasoning  of  dreadnaught  clothing, 
rope-yarn,  boat-hooks,  sculls  and  oars, 
spare  stretchers,  rudders,  pistols,  cut- 
lasses, and  the  like.  Then  into  the 
cell,  aired  high  up  in  the  wooden  wall 
through  an  opening  like  a kitchen  plate- 
rack,  wherein  there  was  a drunken 
man,  not  at  all  warm,  and  very  wishful 
to  know  if  it  were  morning  yet.  Then 
into  a better  sort  of  watch  and  ward 
room,  where  there  was  a squadron  of 
stone  bottles  drawn  up,  ready  to  be 
filled  with’hot  water  and  applied  to  any 
unfortunate  creature  who  might  be 
brought  in  apparently  drowned.  Final- 
ly we  shook  hands  with  our  worthy 
friend  Pea,  and  ran  all  the  way  to  Towner 
FI  ill,  under  strong  Police  suspicion  oc- 
casionally, before  we  got  warm. 


A WALK  IN  A WORKHOUSE. 


On  a certain  Sunday,  I formed  one  of 
the  congregation  assembled  in  the 
chapel  of  a large  metropolitan  Work- 
house.  With  the  exception  of  the  cler- 
gyman and  clerk,  and  a very  few  offi- 
cials, there  were  none  but  paupers  pres- 
ent. The  children  sat  in  the  galleries; 
the  women  in  the  body  of  the  chapel, 
and  in  one  of  the  side  aisles  ; the  men 
in  the  remaining  aisle.  The  service 


was  decorously  performed,  though  the 
sermon  might  have  been  much  better 
adapted  to  the  comprehension  and  to 
the  circumstances  of  the  hearers.  The 
usual  supplications  were  offered,  with 
more  than  the  usual  significancy  in  such 
a place  for  the  fatherless  children  and 
widows,  for  all  sick  persons  and  young 
children,  for  all  that  were  desolate  and 
oppressed,  for  the  comforting  and  help- 


A WALK  IN  A WORKHOUSE . 


435 


ing  of  the  weak -hearted,  for  the  rais- 
ing up  of  them  that  had  fallen  ; for  all 
that  were  in  danger,  necessity,  and  trib- 
ulation. The  prayers  of  the  congrega- 
tion were  desired  “for  several  persons 
in  the  various  wards  dangerously  ill”  ; 
and  others  who  were  recovering  re- 
turned their  thanks  to  Heaven. 

Among  this  congregation  were  some 
evil-looking  young  women,  and  beetle- 
browed  young  men  ; but  not  many,  — 
perhaps  that  kind  of  characters  kept 
away.  Generally,  the  faces  (those  of 
the  children  excepted)  were  depressed 
and  subdued,  and  wanted  color.  Aged 
people  were  there,  in  every  variety. 
Mumbling,  blear-eyed,  spectacled,  stu- 
pid, deaf,  lame ; vacantly  winking  in 
the  gleams  of  sun  that  nqw  and  then 
crept  in  through  the  open  doors  from 
the  paved  yard ; shading  their  listening 
ears  or  blinking  eyes  with  their  with- 
ered hands  ; poring  over  their  books, 
leering  at  nothing,  going  to  sleep, 
crouching  and  drooping  m corners. 
There  were  weird  old  women,  all  skele- 
ton within,  all  bonnet  and  cloak  with- 
out, continually  wiping  their  eyes  with 
dirty  dusters  of  pocket-handkerchiefs  ; 
and  there  were  ugly  old  crones,  both 
male  and  female,  with  a ghastly  kind  of 
contentment  upon  them  which  was  not 
at  all  comforting  to  see.  Upon  the 
whole,  it  was  the  dragon  Pauperism  in 
a very  weak  and  impotent  condition  ; 
toothless,  fangless,  drawing  his  breath 
heavily  enough,  and  hardly  worth  chain- 
ing up. 

When  the  service  was  over,  I walked 
with  the  humane  and  conscientious 
gentleman  whose  duty  it  was  to  take 
that  walk,  that  Sunday  morning, 
through  the  little  world  of  poverty  en- 
closed within  the  workhouse  walls.  It 
was  inhabited  by  a population  of  some 
fifteen  hundred  or  two  thousand  pau- 
ers,  ranging  from  the  infant  newly 
orn  or  not  yet  come  into  the  pauper 
world  to  the  old  man  dying  on  his 
bed. 

In  a room  opening  from  a squalid 
yard,  where  a number  of  listless  women 
were  lounging  to  and  fro,  trying  to  get 
warm  in  the  ineffectual  sunshine  of  the 
tardy  May  morning,  — in  the  “Itch 
Ward,”  not  to  compromise  the  truth, 


— a woman  such  as  Hogarth  has  often 
drawn  was  hurriedly  getting  on  her 
gown  before  a dusty  fire.  She  was  the 
nurse,  or  wardswoman,  of  that  insalu- 
brious department,  — herself  a pauper, 

— flabby,  raw-boned,  untidy,  — un- 
romising  and  coarse  of  aspect  as  need 
e.  But  on  being  spoken  to  about  the 

patients  whom  she  had  in  charge,  she 
turned  round,  with  her  shabby  gown 
half  on,  half  off,  and  fell  a crying  with 
all  her  might.  Not  for  show,  not  quer-, 
ulously,  not  in  any  mawkish  sentiment, 
but  in  the  deep  grief  and  affliction  of 
her  heart ; turning;  away  her  dishev- 
elled head,  sobbing  most  bitterly, 
wringing  her  hands,  and  letting  fall 
abundance  of  great  tears,  that  choked 
her  utterance.  What  was  the  matte* 
with  the  nurse  of  the  itch  ward?  O, 
“the  dropped  child  ” was  dead!  O. 
the  child  that  was  found  in  the  street', 
and  she  had  brought  up  ever  since,  had 
died  an  hour  ago,  and  see  where  the 
little  creature  lay  beneath  this  cloth  ! 
The  dear,  the  pretty  dear  ! 

The  dropped  child  seemed  too  small 
and  poor  a thing  for  Death  to  be  in  ear- 
nest with,  but  Death  had  taken  it  ; and 
already  its  diminutive  form  was  neatly 
washed,  composed,  and  stretched  as  if 
in  sleep  upon  a box.  I thought  I heard 
a voice  from  Heaven  saying,  It  shall  ba 
well  for  thee,  O nurse  of  the  itch  ward, 
when  some  less  gentle  pauper  does 
those  offices  to  thy  cold  form,  that  such 
as  the  dropped  child  are  the  angels  who 
behold  my  Father’s  face  ! 

In  another  room  were  several  ugly 
old  women,  crouching,  witch-like,  round 
a hearth,  and  chattering  and  nodding, 
after  the  manner  of  the  monkeys.  “ All 
well  here  ? And  enough  to  eat  ? ” A 
general  chattering  and  chuckling  ; at 
last  an  answer  from  a volunteer.  O yes, 
gentleman  ! Bless  you,  gentleman  ! 
Lord  bless  the  parish  of  St.  So-and-so  ! 
It  feed  the  hungry,  sir,  and  give  drink 
to  the  thusty,  and  it  warm  them  which 
is  cold,  so  it  do,  and  good  luck  to  the 
parish  of  St.  So-and-so,  and  thank’ee 
gentleman  ! ” Elsewhere,  a party  of 
pauper  nurses  were  at  dinner.  “ How 
do  you  get  on  ? ” “ O,  pretty  well,  sir  I 

W e works  hard,  and  we  lives  hard,  — 
like  the  sodgers  ! ” 


43$ 


A WALK  IN  A WORKHOUSE . 


In  another  room,  a kind  of  purgatory 
or  place  of  transition,  six  or  eight  noisy 
mad-Women  were  gathered  together, 
under  the  superintendence  of  one  sane 
attendant.  Among  them  was  a girl  of 
two  or  three  and  twenty,  very  prettily 
dressed,  of  most  respectable  appearance, 
and  good  manners,  who  had  been 
brought  in  from  the  house  where  she 
had  lived  as  domestic  servant  (hav- 
ing, I suppose,  no  friends),  on  account 
of  being  subject  to  epileptic  fits,  and  re- 
quiring to  be  removed  under  the  influ- 
ence of  a very  bad  one.  She  was  by  no 
means  of  the  same  stuff,  or  the  same 
breeding,  or  the  same  experience,  or  in 
the  same  state  of  mind,  as  those  by 
whom  she  was  surrounded ; and  she 
pathetically  complained  that  the  daily 
association  and  the  nightly  noise  made 
her  worse,  and  was  driving  her  mad,  — 
which  was  perfectly  evident.  The  case 
was  noted  for  inquiry  and  redress,  but 
she  said  she  had  already  been  there  for 
some  weeks. 

If  this  girl  had  stolen  her  mistress’s 
watch,  I do  not  hesitate  to  say  she 
would  have  been  infinitely  better  off. 
We  have  come  to  this  absurd,  this  dan- 
gerous, this  monstrous  pass,  that  the 
dishonest  felon  is,  in  respect  of  cleanli- 
ness, order,  diet,  and  accommodation, 
better  provided  for  and  taken  care  of 
than  the  honest  pauper. 

And  this  conveys  no  special  imputation 
on  the  workhouse  of  the  parish  of  St.  So- 
and-so,  where,  on  the  contrary,  I saw 
many  things  to  commend.  It  was  very 
agreeable,  recollecting  that  most  infa- 
mous and  atrocious  enormity  committed 
at  Tooting,  — an  enormity  which  a hun- 
dred years  hence  will  still  be  vividly 
remembered  in  the  by-ways  of  English 
life,  and  which  has  done  more  to  engen- 
der a gloomy  discontent  and  suspicion 
among  many  thousands  of  the  people 
than  all  the  Chartist  leaders  could  have 
done  in  all  their  lives,  — to  find  the 
pauper  children  in  this  workhouse  look- 
ing robust  and  well,  and  apparently  the 
objects  of  very  great  care.  In  the 
Infant  School,  — a large,  light,  airy 
room  at  the  top  of  the  building,  — the 
little  creatures,  being  at  dinner,  and 
eating  their  potatoes  heartily,  were  not 
cowed  by  the  presence  of  strange  visit- 


ors, but  stretched  out  their  small  hands 
to  be  shaken,  with  a very  pleasant  con- 
fidence. And  it  was  comfortable  to 
see  two  mangy  pauper  rocking-horses 
rampant  in  a corner.  In  the  girls’ 
school,  where  the  dinner  was  also  in 
progress,  everything  bore  a cheerful 
and  healthy  aspect.  The  meal  was 
over  in  the  boys’  school  by  the  time  of 
our  arrival  there,  and  the  room  was  not 
yet  quite  rearranged ; but  the  boys 
were  roaming  unrestrained  about  a large 
and  airy  yard,  as  any  other  school-boys 
might  have  done.  Some  of  them  had 
been  drawing  large  ships  upon  the 
school-room  wall  ; and  if  they  had  a 
mast  with  shrouds  and  stays  set  up  for 
practice  (as  they  have  in  the  Middlesex 
House  of  Correction),  it  would  be  so 
much  the  better.  At  present,  if  a boy 
should  feel  a strong  impulse  upon  him 
to  learn  the  art  of  going  aloft,  he  could 
only  gratify  it,  I presume,  as  the  men 
and  women  paupers  gratify  their  aspira- 
tions after  better  board  and  lodging,  by 
smashing  as  many  workhouse  windows 
as  possible,  and  being  promoted  to 
prison. 

In  one  place,  the  Newgate  of  the 
Workhouse,  a company  of  boys  and 
youths  were  locked  up  in  a yard  alone  ; 
their  day-room  being  a kind  of  kennel 
where  the  casual  poor  used  formerly  to 
be  littered  down  at  night.  Divers  of 
them  had  been  there  some  long  time. 
“ Are  they  never  going  away  ? ” was  the 
natural  inquiry.  “ Most  of  them  are 
crippled  in  some  form  or  other,”  said  the 
Wardsman,  “ and  not  fit  for  anything.” 
They  slunk  about  like  dispirited  wolves 
or  hyenas,  and  made  a pounce  at  their 
food  when  it  was  served  out,  much  as 
those  animals  do.  The  big-headed  idiot, 
shuffling  his  feet  along  the  pavement 
in  the  sunlight  outside,  was  a more 
agreeable  object  every  way. 

Groves  of  babies  in  arms  ; groves  of 
mothers  and  other  sick  women  in  bed  ; 
groves  of  lunatics  ; jungles  of  men  in 
stone-paved  down-stairs  day-rooms, 
waiting  for  their  dinners ; longer  and 
longer  groves  of  old  people,  in  up-stairs 
Infirmary  wards,  wearing  out  life,  God 
knows  how,  — this  was  the  scenery 
through  which  the  walk  lay  for  two 
hours.  In  some  of  these  latter  cham- 


A WALK  IK  A WORKHOUSE. 


437 


bers,  there  were  pictures  stuck  against 
the  wall,  and  a neat  display  of  crockery 
and  pewter  on  a kind  of  sideboard ; 
now  and  then  it  was  a treat  to  see  a 
plant  or  two ; in  almost  every  ward 
there  was  a cat. 

In  all  of  these  Long  Walks  of  aged 
and  infirm,  some  old  people  were  bed- 
ridden, and  had  been  for  a long  time ; 
some  were  sitting  on  their  beds  half- 
naked  ; some  dying  in  their  beds  ; some 
out  of  bed,  and  sitting  at  a table  near 
the  fire.  A sullen  or  lethargic  indif- 
ference to  what  was  asked,  a blunted 
sensibility  to  everything  but  warmth  and 
food,  a moody  absence  of  complaint  as 
being  of  no  use,  a dogged  silence  and 
resentful  desire  to  be  left  alone  again,  I 
thought  were  generally  apparent.  On 
our  walking  into  the  midst  of  one  of 
these  dreary  perspectives  of  old  men, 
nearly  the  following  little  dialogue  took 
place,  the  nurse  not  being  immediately 
at  h’and : — 

“All  well  here?” 

No  answer.  An  old  man  in  a Scotch 
cap  sitting  among  others  on  a form  at 
the  table,  eating  out  of  a tin  porringer, 
pushes  back  his  cap  a little  to  look  at 
us,  claps  it  down  on  his  forehead  again 
with  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  goes  on 
eating. 

“ All  well  here  ? ” (repeated.) 

No  answer.  Another  old  man,  sit- 
ting on  his  bed,  paralytically  peeling 
a boiled  potato,  lifts  his  head,  and 
stares. 

“ Enough  to  eat?” 

No  answer.  Another  old  man,  in 
bed,  turns  himself  and  coughs. 

“ How  are  you  to-day  ? ” To  the  last 
old  man. 

That  old  man  says  nothing ; but  an- 
other old  man,  a tall  old  man  of  very 
good  address,  speaking  with  perfect  cor- 
rectness, comes  forward  from  some- 
where, and  volunteers  an  answer.  The 
reply  almost  always  proceeds  from  a 
volunteer,  and  not  from  the  person 
looked  at  or  spoken  to. 

“We  are  very  old,  sir,”  in  a mild,  dis- 
tinct voice.  “We  can’t  expect  to  be 
■veil,  most  of  us.” 

“Are  you  comfortable?” 

“ I have  no  complaint  to  make,  sir.” 
vVith  a half-shake  of  his  head,  a half- 


shrug of  his  shoulders,  and  a kind  of 
apologetic  smile. 

“Enough  to  eat?” 

“ Why,  sir,  I have  but  a poor  appe- 
tite,” with  the  same  air  as  before  ; “and 
yet  I get  through  my  allowance  very 
easily.” 

“ But,”  showing  a porringer  with  a 
Sunday  dinner  in  it ; “ here  is  a portion 
of  mutton,  and  three  potatoes.  You 
can’t  starve  on  that?” 

“ O dear  no,  sir,”  with  the  same  apol- 
ogetic air.  “Not  starve.” 

“ What  do  you  want? ” 

“We  have  very  little  bread,  sir.  It ’s 
an  exceedingly  small  quantity  of  bread.” 
The  nurse,  who  is  now  rubbing  her 
hands  at  the  questioner’s  elbow,  inter- 
feres with,  “ It  ain’t  much,  raly,  sir. 
You  see  they’ve  only  six  ounces  a day, 
and  when  they  ’ve  took  their  breakfast, 
there  can  only  be  a little  left  for  night, 
sir.” 

Another  old  man,  hitherto  invisible, 
rises  out  of  his  bedclothes,  as  out  of 
a grave,  and  looks  on. 

“You  have  tea  at  night?”  the  ques- 
tioner is  still  addressing  the  well-spoken 
old  man. 

“ Yes,  sir,  we  have  tea  at  night.” 
“And  you  save  what  bread  you  can 
from  the  morning,  to  eat  with  it  ? ” 

“ Yes,  sir,  — if  we  can  save  any.” 

“ And  you  want  more  to  eat  with  it  ? ” 
“Yes,  sir.”  With  a very  anxious 
face. 

The  questioner,  in  the  kindness  of 
his  heart,  appears  a little  discomposed, 
and  changes  the  subject. 

“What  has  become  of  the  old  man 
who  used  to  lie  in  that  bed  in  the 
comer?  ” 

The  nurse  don’t  remember  what  old 
man  is  referred  to.  There  has  been 
such  a many  old  men.  The  well-spoken 
old  man  is  doubtful.  The  spectral  old 
man  who  has  come  to  life  in  bed  says, 
“Billy  Stevens.”  Another  old  man, 
who  has  previously  had  his  head  in  the 
fireplace,  pipes  out,  — 

“ Charley  Walters.” 

Something  like  a feeble  interest  is 
awakened.  I suppose  Charley  Walters 
had  conversation  in  him. 

“He’s  dead,”  says  the  piping  old 
man. 


43^ 


A WALK  IN  A WORKHOUSE. 


Another  old  man,  with  one  eye 
screwed  up,  hastily  displaces  the  piping 
old  man,  and  says,  — 

“ Yes  ! Charley  Walters  died  in  that 
bed,  and  — and  — ” 

“ Billy  Stevens,”  persists  the  spectral 
old  man. 

“No,  no  ! and  Johnny  Rogers  died 
in  that  bed,  and  — and  — they’re  both 
on  ’em  dead  — and  Sam’l  Bowyer”; 
this  seems  very  extraordinary  to  him ; 
“ he  went  out ! ” 

With  this  he  subsides,  and  all  the  old 
men  (having  had  quite  enough  of  it)  sub- 
side, and  the  spectral  old  man  goes  into 
his  grave  again,  and  takes  the  shade  of 
Billy  Stevens  with  him. 

As  we  turn  to  go  out  at  the  door, 
another  previously  invisible  old  man,  a 
hoarse  old  man  in  a flannel  gown,  is 
standing  there,  as  if  he  had  just  come 
up  through  the  floor. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir,  could  I take 
the  liberty  of  saying  a word  ? ” 

“ Yes ; what  is  it?” 

“ I am  greatly  better  in  my  health, 
sir ; but  what  I want,  to  get  me  quite 
round,”  with  his  hand  on  his  throat,  “is 
a little  fresh  air,  sir.  It  has  always 
done  my  complaint  so  much  good,  sir. 
The  regular  leave  for  going  out  comes 
round  so  seldom,  that  if  the  gentlemen, 
next  Friday,  would  give  me  leave  to  go 
out  walking,  now  and  then  — for  only 
an  hour  or  so,  sir  ! — ” 

Who  could  wonder,  looking  through 
those  weary  vistas  of  bed  and  infirmity, 
that  it  should  do  him  good  to  meet  with 
some  other  scenes,  and  assure  himself 
that  there  was  something  else  on  earth  ? 


Who  could  help  wondering  why  the  old 
men  lived  on  as  they  did ; what  grasp 
they  had  on  life  ; what  crumbs  of  inter- 
est or  occupation  they  could  pick  up 
from  its  bare  board ; whether  Charley 
Walters  had  ever  described  to  them  the 
days  when  he  kept  company  with  some 
old  pauper  woman  in  the  bud,  or  Billy 
Stevens  ever  told  them  of  the  time  when 
he  was  a dweller  in  the  far-off  foreign 
land  called  Home  ! 

The  morsel  of  burnt  child,  lying  in 
another  room,  so  patiently,  in  bed, 
wrapped  in  lint,  and  looking  steadfastly 
at  us  with  his  bright  quiet  eyes  when 
we  spoke  to  him  kindly,  looked  as  if 
the  knowledge  of  these  things,  and  of 
all  the  tender  things  there  are  to  think 
about,  might  have  been  in  his  mind,  — 
as  if  he  thought  with  us,  that  there  was 
a fellow-feeling  in  the  pauper  nurses 
which  appeared  to  make  them  more 
kind  to  their  charges  than  the  race  of 
common  nurses  in  the  hospitals,.*-  as 
if  he  mused  upon  the  future  of  some 
older  children  lying  around  him  in  the 
same  place,  and  thought  it  best,  per- 
haps, all  things  considered,  that  he 
should  die,  — as  if  he  knew,  without  fear, 
of  those  many  coffins,  made  and  un- 
made, piled  up  in  the  store  below,  — and 
of  his  unknown  friend,  “the  dropped 
child,”  calm  upon  the  box-lid  covered 
with  a cloth.  But  there  was  something 
wistful  and  appealing,  too,  in  his  tiny 
face,  as  if,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  hard 
necessities  and  incongruities  he  pon- 
dered on,  he  pleaded,  in  behalf  of  the 
helpless  and  the  aged  poor,  for  a little 
more  liberty  — and  a little  more  bread. 


v 


PRINCE  BULL.  A FAIRY  TALE. 


439 


PRINCE  BULL. 


Once  upon  a time,  and  of  course  it 
was  in  the  Golden  Age,  and  I hope  you 
may  know  when  that  was,  for  I am  sure 
I don’t,  though  I have  tried  hard  to  find 
out,  there  lived  in  a rich  and  fertile 
country  a powerful  Prince  whose  name 
was  Bull.  He  had  gone  through  a 
great  deal  of  fighting,  in  his  time,  about 
all  sorts  of  things,  including  nothing ; 
but  had  gradually  settled  down  to  be  a 
steady,  peaceable,  good-natured,  corpu- 
lent, rather  sleepy  Prince. 

This  Puissant  Prince  was  married  to 
a lovely  Princess  whose  name  was  Fair 
Freedom.  She  had  brought  him  a 
large  fortune,  and  had  borne  him  an 
immense  number  of  children,  and  had 
set  them  to  spinning,  and  farming,  and 
engineering,  and  soldiering,  and  sailor- 
ing,  and  doctoring,  and  lawyering,  and 
preaching,  and  all  kinds  of  trades. 
The  coffers  of  Prince  Bull  were  full  of 
treasure,  his  cellars  were  crammed  w'ith 
delicious  wines  from  all  parts  of  the 
world,  the  richest  gold  and  silver  plate 
that  ever  was  seen  adorned  his  side- 
boards, his  sons  were  strong,  his  daugh- 
ters were  handsome,  and,  in  short,  you 
might  have  supposed  that,  if  there  ever 
lived  upon  earth  a fortunate  and  happy 
Prince,  the  name  of  that  Prince,  take 
him  for  all  in  all,  was  assuredly  Prince 
Bull. 

But  appearances,  as  we  all  know, 
are  not  always  to  be  trusted,  — far  from 
it ; and  if  they  had  led  you  to  this 
conclusion  respecting  Prince  Bull,  they 
would  have  led  you  wrong,  as  they  often 
have  led  me. 

For  this  good  Prince  had  two  sharp 
thorns  in  his  pillow,  two  hard  knobs  in 
his  crown,  two  heavy  loads  on  his  mind, 
two  unbridled  nightmares  in  his  sleep, 
two  rocks  ahead  in  his  course.  He 
could  not  by  any  means  get  servants  to 
suit  him,  and  he  had  a tyrannical  old 
godmother  whose  name  was  Tape. 

She  was  a fairy,  this  Tape,  and  was  a 


A FAIRY  TALE. 


bright  red  all  over.  She  was  disgust- 
ingly prim  and  formal,  and  could  never 
bend  herself  a hair’s  breadth,  this  way 
or  that  way,  out  of  her  naturally  crooked 
shape.  But  she  was  very  potent  in  her 
wicked  art.  She  could  stop  the  fastest 
thing  in  the  world,  change  the  strongest 
thing  into  the  weakest,  and  the  most 
useful  into  the  most  useless.  To  do 
this  she  had  only  to  put  her  cold  hand 
upon  it,  and  repeat  her  own  name. 
Tape.  Then  it  withered  away. 

At  the  Court  of  Prince  Bull,  — at 
least  I don’t  mean  literally  at  his  court, 
because  he  was  a very  genteel  Prince, 
and  readily  yielded  to  his  godmother 
when  she  always  reserved  that  for  his 
hereditary  Lords  and  Ladies, — in  the 
dominions  of  Prince  Bull,  among  the 
great  mass  of  the  community  who  were 
called  in  the  language  of  that  polite 
country  the  Mobs  and  the  Snobs,  were 
a number  of  very  ingenious  men,  who 
were  always  busy  with  some  invention 
or  other  for  promoting  the  prosperity 
of  the  Prince’s  subjects,  and  augment- 
ing the  Prince’s  power.  But  when- 
ever they  submitted  their  models  for 
the  Prince’s  approval,  his  godmother 
stepped  forward,  laid  her  hand  upon 
them,  and  said  “ Tape.”  Hence  it 
came  to  pass,  that  when  any  particular- 
ly good  discovery  was  made,  the  dis- 
coverer usually  carried  it  off  to  some 
other  Prince,  in  foreign  parts,  who  had 
no  old  godmother  who  said  Tape.  This 
was  not  on  the  whole  an  advantageous 
state  of  things  for  Prince  Bull,  to  the 
best  of  my  understanding. 

The  worst  of  it  was,  that  Prince  Bull 
had  in  course  of  years  lapsed  into  such 
a state  of  subjection  to  this  unlucky 
godmother,  that  he  never  made  any 
serious  effort  to  rid  himself  of  her  tyran- 
ny. I have  said  this  was  the  worst  of 
it,  but  there  I was  wrong,  because  there 
is  a worse  consequence  still  behind. 
The  Prince’s  numerous  family  became 


440 


PRINCE  BULL.  A FAIRY  TALE. 


so  downright  sick  and  tired  of  Tape, 
that  when  they  should  have  helped  the 
Prince  out  of  the  difficulties  into  which 
that  evil  creature  led  him,  they  fell  into 
a dangerous  habit  of  moodily  keeping 
away  from  him  in  an  impassive  and 
indifferent  manner,  as  though  they  had 
quite  forgotten  that  no  harm  could  hap- 
pen to  the  Prince,  their  father,  without 
its  inevitably  affecting  therftselves. 

Such  was  the  aspect  of  affairs  at  the 
court  of  Prince  Bull,  when  this  great 
Prince  found  it  necessary  to  go  to  war 
with  Prince  Bear.  He  had  been  for 
some  time  very  doubtful  of  his  servants, 
who,  besides  being  indolent  and  addict- 
ed to  enriching  their  families  at  his 
expense,  domineered  over  him  dreadful- 
ly ; threatening  to  discharge  themselves 
if  they  were  found  the  least  fault  with, 
pretending  that  they  had  done  a won- 
derful amount  of  work  when  they  had 
done  nothing,  making  the  most  unmean- 
ing speeches  that  ever  were  heard  in  the 
Prince’s  name,  and  uniformly  showing 
themselves  to  be  very  inefficient  indeed. 
Though  that  some  of  them  had  excel- 
lent characters  from  previous  situations 
is  not  to  be  denied.  Well  ; Prince  Bull 
called  his  servants  together,  and  said  to 
them  one  and  all,  “ Send  out. my  army 
against  Prince  Bear.  Clothe  it,  arm  it, 
feed  it,  provide  it  with  all  necessaries 
and  contingencies,  and  I will  pay  the 
piper ! Do  your  duty  by  my  brave 
troops,”  said  the  Prince,  “ and  do  it 
well,  and  I will  pour  my  treasure  out 
like  water,  to  defray  the  cost.  Who 
ever  heard  me  complain  of  money  well 
laid  out ! ” Which  indeed  he  had  rea- 
son for  saying,  inasmuch  as  he  was  well 
known  to  be  a truly  generous  and  mu- 
nificent Prince. 

When  the  servants  heard  those  words, 
they  sent  out  the  army  against  Prince 
Bear,  and  they  set  the  army  tailors  to 
work,  and  the  army  provision  mer- 
chants, and  the  makers  of  guns  both 
great  and  small,  and  the  gunpowder 
makers,  and  the  makers  of  ball,  shell, 
and  shot  ; and  they  bought  up  all  man- 
ner of  stores  and  ships,  without  trou- 
bling their  heads  about  the  price,  and 
appeared  to  be  so  busy  that  the  good 
Prince  rubbed  his  hands,  and  (using  a 
favorite  expression  of  his)  said,  “ It*’s 


all  right ! ” But  while  they  were  thus 
employed,  the  Prince’s  godmother,  who 
w'as  a great  favorite  with  those  servants, 
looked  in  upon  them  continually  all  day 
long,  and  whenever  she  popped  in  her 
head  at  the  door,  said,  “ How  do  you 
do,  my  children?  What  are  you  doing 
here  ? ” “ Official  business,  godmoth- 

er.” “Oho  !”  says  this  wicked  fairy. 
“ — Tape!”  And  then  the  business 
all  went  wrong,  whatever  it  was,  and 
the  servants’  heads  became  so  addled 
and  muddled  that  they  thought  they 
were  doing  wonders. 

Now,  this  was  very  bad  conduct  on 
the  part  of  the  vicious  old  nuisance, 
and  she  ought  to  have  been  strangled, 
even  if  she  had  stopped  here  ; but  she 
did  n’t  stop  here,  as  you  shall  learn. 
For  a number  of  the  Prince’s  subjects, 
being  very  fond  of  the  Prince’s  army 
who  were  the  bravest  of  men,  assembled 
together  and  provided  all  manner  of  eata- 
bles and  drinkables,  and  books  to  read, 
and  clothes  to  wear,  and  tobacco  to 
smoke,  and  candles  to  burn,  and  nailed 
them  up  in  great  packing-cases,  and  put 
them  aboard  a great  many  ships,  to  be 
carried  out  to  that  brave  army  in  the 
cold  and  inclement  country  where  they 
were  fighting  Prince  Bear.  Then  up 
comes  this  wicked  fairy  as  the  ships 
were  weighing  anchor,  and  says,  “ How 
do  you  do,  my  children  ? What  are  you 
doing  here?”  “We  are  going  with  all 
these  comforts  to  the  army,  godmother.” 
“ Oho  ! ” says  she.  “ A pleasant  voy- 
age, my  darlings.  — Tape  ! ” And  from 
that  time  forth,  those  enchanted  ships 
went  sailing,  against  wind  and  tide  and 
rhyme  and  reason,  round  and  round  the 
world,  and  whenever  they  touched  at 
any  port  were  ordered  off  immediately, 
and  could  never  deliver  their  cargoes 
anywhere. 

This,  again,  was  very  bad  conduct  on 
the  part  of  the  vicious  old  nuisance,  and 
she  ought  to  have  been  strangled  for  it, 
if  she  had  done  nothing  worse  ; but  she 
did  something  worse  still,  as  you  shall 
learn.  For  she  got  astride  of  an  official 
broomstick  and  muttered  as  a spell  these 
two  sentences,  “On  her  Majesty’s  ser- 
vice,” and  “ I have  the  honor  to  be,  sir, 
your  most  obedient  servant,”  and  pres-' 
ently  alighted  in  the  cold  and  inclement 


PRINCE  BULL.  A FAIRY  TALE. 


441 


country  where  the  army  of  Prince  Bull 
were  encamped  to  fight  the  army  of 
Prince  Bear.  On  the  sea-shore  of  that 
country  she  found  piled  together  a 
number  of  houses  for  the  army  to  live 
in,  and  a quantity  of  provisions  for  the 
army  to  live  upon,  and  a quantity  of 
clothes  for  the  army  to  wear ; while,  sit- 
ting in  the  mud  gazing  at  them,  were  a 
group  of  officers  as  red  to  look  at  as 
the  wicked  old  woman  herself.  So,  she 
said  to  one  of  them,  “ Who  are  you,  my 
darling,  and  how  do  you  do ? ” “I  am 
the  Quartermaster- General’s  Depart- 
ment, godmother,  and  I am  pretty 
well.”  Then  she  said  to  another, 
“ Who  are  you , my  darling,  and  how  do 
you  do?”  “I  am  the  Commissariat 
Department,  godmother,  and  / am  pret- 
ty well.”  Then  she  said  to  another, 
“Who  ar  eyou,  my  darling,  and  how  do 
you  do?”  “I  am  the  Head  of  the 
Medical  Department,  godmother,,  and 
I am  pretty  well.”  Then  she  said  to 
some  gentlemen  scented  with  lavender, 
who  kept  themselves  at  a great  distance 
from  the  rest,  “ And  who  are  you,  my 
pretty  pets,  and  how  do  you  do?” 
And  they  answered,  “ We-aw-are-the- 
aw  - Staff  - aw  - Department,  godmother, 
and  we  are  very  well  indeed.”  “I  am 
delighted  to  see  you  all,  my  beauties,” 
says  this  wicked  old  fairy  ; “ — Tape  ! ” 
Upon  that  the  houses,  clothes,  and  pro- 
visions all  mouldered  away ; and  the 
soldiers  who  were  sound  fell  sick ; and 
the  soldiers  who  were  sick  died  miser- 
ably ; and  the  noble  army  of  Prince  Bull 
perished. 

When  the  dismal  news  of  his  great 
loss  was  carried  to  the  Prince,  he  sus- 
pected his  godmother  very  much  in- 
deed ; but  he  knew  that  his  servants 
must  have  kept  company  with  the  ma- 
licious beldame,  and  must  have  given 
way  to  her,  and  therefore  he  resolved  to 
turn  those  servants  out  of  their  places. 
So  he  called  to  him  a Roebuck  who 
had  the  gift  of  speech,  and  he  said, 
“ Good  Roebuck,  tell  them  they  must 
go.”  So  the  good  Roebuck  delivered 
his  message,  so  like  a man  that  you 
might  have  supposed  him  to  be  nothing 
but  a man,  and  they  were  turned  out,  — 
but  not  without  warning,  for  that  they 
had  had  a long  time. 


And  now  comes  the  most  extraor- 
dinary part  of  the  history  of  this  Prince. 
When  he  had  turned  out  those  servants, 
of  course  he  wanted  others.  What  was 
his  astonishment  to  find  that  in  all  his 
dominions,  which  contained  no  less  than 
twenty-seven  millions  of  people,  there 
were  not  above  five-and-twenty  ser- 
vants altogether  ! They  were  so  lofty 
about  it,  too,  that  instead  of  discussing 
whether  they  should  hire  themselves 
as  servants  to  Prince  Bull,  they  turned 
things  topsy-turvy,  and  considered 
whether  as  a favor  they  should  hire 
Prince  Bull  to  be  their  master  ! While 
they  were  arguing  this  point  among 
themselves  quite  at  their  leisure,  the 
wicked  old  red  fairy  was  incessantly 
going  up  and  down,  knocking  at  the 
doors  of  twelve  of  the  oldest  of  the  five- 
and-twenty,  who  were  the  oldest  inhab- 
itants in  all  that  country,  and  whose 
united  ages  amounted  to  one  thousand, 
saying,  “ Will  you  hire  Prince  Bull  for 
your  master?  Will  you  hire  Prince 
Bull  for  your  master?  ” To  which  one 
answered,  “I  will  if  next  door  will”; 
and  another,  “ I won’t  if  over  the  way 
does”;  and  another,  “I  can’t  if  he, 
she,  or  they  might,  could,  would,  or 
should.”  And  all  this  time  Prince 
Bull’s  affairs  were  going  to  rack  and 
ruin. 

At  last,  Prince  Bull  in  the  height  of 
his  perplexity  assumed  a thoughtful  face, 
as  if  he  were  struck  by  an  entirely  new 
idea.  The  wicked  old  fairy,  seeing 
this,  was  at  his  elbow  directly,  and  said, 
“ How  do  you  do,  my  Prince,  and  what 
are  you  thinking  of?”  “I  am  think- 
ing, godmother,”  says  he,  “that  among 
all  the  seven-and-twenty  millions  of  my 
subjects  who  have  never  been  in  ser- 
vice, there  are  men  of  intellect  and  busi- 
ness who  have  made  me  very  famous 
both  among  my  friends  and  enemies.” 
“Ay,  truly?”  says  the  fairy.  “Ay, 
truly,”  says  the  Prince.  “ And  what 
then?”  says  the  fairy.  “Why,  then,” 
says  he,  “ since  the  regular  old  class  of 
servants  do  so  ill,  are  so  hard  to  get, 
and  carry  it  with  so  high  a hand,  per- 
haps I might  try  to  make  good  servants 
of  some  of  these.”  The  words  had  no 
sooner  passed  his  lips  than  she  returned, 
chuckling,  “You  think  so,  do  you?  In- 


442 


A PLATED  ARTICLE. 


deed,  my  Prince?  — Tape!”  There- 
upon he  directly  forgot  what  he  was 
thinking  of,  and  cried  out  lamentably  to 
the  old  servants,  “ O,  do  come  and  hire 
your  poor  old  master  ! Pray  do  ! On 
any  terms ! ” 

And  this,  for  the  present,  finishes  the 
story  of  Prince  Bull.  I wish  I could 


wind  it  up  by  saying  that  he  lived  hap- 
py ever  afterwards,  but  I cannot  in  my 
conscience  do  so;  for,  with  Tape  at  his 
elbow,  and  his  estranged  children  fa- 
tally repelled  by  her  from  coming  near 
him,  I do  not,  to  tell  you  the  plain 
truth,  believe  in  the  possibility  of  such 
an  end  to  it. 


A PLATED 


Putting  up  for  the  night  in  one  of 
the  chiefest  towns  of  Staffordshire,  I 
find  it  to  be  by  no  means  a lively  town. 
In  fact  it  is  as  dull  and  dead  a town 
as  any  one  could  desire  not  to  see.  It 
seems  as  if  its  whole  population  might 
be  imprisoned  in  its  Railway  Station. 
The  Refreshment-Room  at  that  Station 
is  a vortex  of  dissipation  compared  with 
the  extinct  town-inn,  the  Dodo,  in  the 
dull  High  Street. 

Why  High  Street?  Why  not  rather 
Low  Street,  Flat  Street,  Low-Spirited 
Street,  Used-up  Street?  Where  are 
the  people  who  belong  to  the  High 
Street?  Can  they  all  be  dispersed 
over  the  face  of  the  country,  seeking 
the  unfortunate  Strolling  Manager  who 
decamped  from  the  mouldy  little  Thea- 
tre last  week,  in  the  beginning  of  his 
season  (as  his  play-bills  testify),  repent- 
antly resolved  to  bring  him  back,  and 
feed  him,  and  be  entertained  ? Or  can 
they  all  be  gathered  to  their  fathers  in 
the  two  old  churchyards  near  to  the 
High  Street,  — retirement  into  which 
churchyards  appears  to  be  a mere  cere- 
mony, there  is  so  very  little  life  outside 
their  confines,  and  such  small  discerni- 
ble difference  between  being  buried 
alive  in  the  town,  and  buried  dead  in 
the  town  tombs?  Over  the  way,  oppo- 
site to  the  staring  blank  bow-windows 
of  the  Dodo,  are  a little  ironmonger’s 
shop,  a little  tailor’s  shop,  (with  a pic- 
ture of  the  fashions  in  the  small  win- 
dow and  a bandy-legged  baby  on  the 


ARTICLE. 


pavement  staring  at  it,)  a watchmak- 
er’s shop,  where  all  the  clocks  and 
watches  must  be  stopped,  I am  sure, 
for  they  could  never  have  the  courage 
to  go,  with  the  town  in  general,  and 
the  Dodo  in  particular,  looking  at 
them.  Shade  of  Miss  Lin  wood,  erst  of 
Leicester  Square,  London,  thou  art 
welcome  here,  and  thy  retreat  is  fitly 
chosen  ! I myself  was  one  of  the  last 
visitors  to  that  awful  storehouse  of  thy 
life’s  work,  where  an  anchorite  old  man 
and  woman  took  my  shilling  with  a 
solemn  wonder,  and  conducting  me  to 
a gloomy  sepulchre  of  needle-work 
dropping  to  pieces  with  dust  and  age, 
and  shrouded  in  twilight  at  high  noon, 
left  me  there,  chilled,  frightened,  and 
alone.  And  now,  in  ghostly  letters,  on 
all  the  dead  walls  of  this  dead  town,  I 
read  thy  honored  name,  and  find  that 
thy  Last  Supper,  worked  in  Berlin 
Wool,  invites  inspection  as  a powerful 
excitement  ! 

Where  are  the  people  who  are  bidden 
with  so  much  cry  to  this  feast  of  little 
wool?  Where  are  they?  Who  are 
they?  They  are  not  the  bandy-legged 
baby  studying  the  fashions  in  the  tai- 
lor’s window.  They  are  not  the  two 
earthy  ploughmen  lounging  outside  the 
saddler’s  shop,  in  the  stiff  square  where 
the  Town  Hall  stands,  like  a brick-and- 
mortar  private  on  parade.  They  are 
not  the  landlady  of  the  Dodo  in  the 
empty  bar,  whose  eye  had  trouble  in  it 
and  no  welcome,  when  I asked  for  din- 


A PLATED  ARTICLE . 


443 


ner.  They  are  not  the  turnkeys  of  the 
Town  Jail,  looking  out  of  the  gateway 
in  their  uniforms,  as  if  they  had  locked 
up  all  the  balance  (as  my  American 
friends  would  say)  of  the  inhabitants, 
and  could  now  rest  a little.  They  are 
not  the  two  dusty  millers  in  the  white 
mill  down  by  the  river,  where  the  great 
water-wheel  goes  heavily  round  and 
round,  like  the  monotonous  days  and 
nights  in  this  forgotten  place.  Then 
who  are  they,  for  there  is  no  one  else  ? 
No  ; this  deponent  maketh  oath  and 
saith  that  there  is  no  one  else,  save  and 
except  the  waiter  at  the  Dodo,  now  lay- 
ing the  cloth.  I have  paced  the  streets, 
and  stared  at  the  houses,  and  am  come 
back  to  the  blank  bow-window  of  the 
Dodo  ; and  the  town-clocks  strike  seven, 
and  the  reluctant  echoes  seem  to  cry, 
“Don’t  wake  us!"  and  the  bandy- 
legged baby  has  gone  home  to  bed. 

If  the  Dodo  were  only  a gregarious 
bird, --if  it  had  only  some  confused 
idea  of  making  a comfortable  nest,  — I 
could  hope  to  get  through  the  hours  be- 
tween this  and  bedtime,  without  being 
consumed  by  devouring  melancholy. 
But  the  Dodo’s  habits  are  all  wrong. 
Jt  provides  me  with  a trackless  desert 
of  sitting-room,  with  a chair  for  every 
day  in  the  year,  a table  for  every  month, 
and  a waste  of  sideboard  where  a lonely 
China  vase  pines  in  a corner  for  its 
mate  long  departed,  and  will  never 
make  a match  with  the  candlestick  in 
the  opposite  corner,  if  it  live  till  Dooms- 
day. The  Dodo  has  nothing  in  the  lar- 
der. Even  now,  I behold  the  Boots  re- 
turning with  my  sole  in  a piece  of  paper  ; 
and  with  that  portion  of  my  dinner,  the 
Boots,  perceiving  me  at  the  blank  bow- 
window,  slaps  his  leg  as  he  comes  across 
the  road,  pretending  it  is  something 
else.  The  Dodo  excludes  the  outer 
air.  When  I mount  up  to  my  bedroom, 
a smell  of  closeness  and  flue  gets  lazily 
up  my  nose  like  sleepy  snuff.  The  loose 
little  bits  of  carpet  writhe  under  my 
tread,  and  take  wormy  shapes.  I don’t 
know  the  ridiculous  man  in  the  looking- 
glass,  beyond  having  met  him  once  or 
twice  in  a dish-cover,  — and  I can  never 
shave  him  to-morrow  morning  ! The 
Dodo  is  narrow-minded  as  to  towels ; 
expects  me  to  wash  on  a freemason’s 


apron  without  the  trimming;  when  I 
ask  for  soap,  gives  me  a stony-hearted 
something  white,  with  no  more  lather 
in  it  than  the  Elgin  marbles.  The  Do- 
do has  seen  better  days,  and  possesses 
interminable  stables  at  the  back,  — 
silent,  grass-grown,  broken-windowed, 
horseless. 

This  mournful  bird  can  fry  a sole, 
however,  which  is  much.  Can  cook  a 
steak,  too,  which  is  more.  I wonder 
where  it  gets  its  Sherry  ! If  I were  to 
send  my  pint  of  wine  to  some  famous 
chemist  to  be  analyzed,  what  woirld  it 
turn  out  to  be  made  of?  It  tastes  of 
pepper,  sugar,  bitter  almonds,  vinegar, 
warm  knives,  any  flat  drink,  and  a little 
brandy.  Would  it  unman  a Spanish 
exile  by  reminding  him  of  his  native 
land  at  all  ? I think  not.  If  there  real- 
ly be  any  townspeople  out  of  the  church- 
yards, and  if  a caravan  of  them  ever  do 
dine,  with  a bottle  of  wine  per  man,  in 
this  desert  of  the  Dodo,  it  must  make 
good  for  the  doctor  next  day  ! 

Where  was  the  waiter  born?  How 
did  he  come  here  ? Has  he  any  hope 
of  getting  away  from  here  ? Does  he 
ever  receive  a letter,  or  take  a ride  up- 
on the  railway,  or  see  anything  but  the 
Dodo  ? Perhaps  he  has  seen  the  Ber- 
lin Wool.  He  appears  to  have  a silent 
sorrow  on  him,  and  it  may  be  that. 
He  clears  the  table  ; draws  the  dingy 
curtains  of  the  great  bow-window,  which 
so  unwillingly  consent  to  meet  that  they 
must  be  pinned  together  ; leaves  me  by 
the  fire  with  my  pint  decanter,  and  a 
little  thin  funnel-shaped  wineglass,  and 
a plate  of  pale  biscuits,  — in  themselves 
engendering  desperation. 

No  book,  no  newspaper  ! I left  the 
Arabian  Nights  in  the  railway  carriage, 
and  have  nothing  to  read  but  Brad- 
shaw, and  “that  way  madness  lies." 
Remembering  what  prisoners  and  ship- 
wrecked mariners  have  done  to  exercise 
their  minds  in  solitude,  I repeat  the 
multiplication . table,  the  pence  table, 
and  the  shilling  table,  which  are  all 
the  tables  I happen  to  know.  What  if  I 
write  something?  The  Dodo  keeps  no 
pens  but  steel  pens  ; and  those  I al- 
ways stick  through  the  paper,  and  can 
turn  to  no  other  account. 

What  am  I to  do  ? Even  if  I could 


444 


A PLATED  ARTICLE. 


have  the  bandy-legged  baby  knocked 
up  and  brought  here,  I could  offer  him 
nothing  but  sherry,  and  that  would  be 
the  death  of  him.  He  would  never 
hold  up  his  head  again  if  he  touched  it. 
I can’t  go  to  bed,  because  I have  con- 
ceived a mortal  hatred  for  my  bed- 
room ; and  I can’t  go  away,  because 
there  is  no  train  for  my  place  of  desti- 
nation until  morning.  To  burn  the 
biscuits  will  be  but  a fleeting  joy  ; still, 
it  is  a temporary  relief,  and  here  they 
go  on  the  fire  ! Shall  I break  the 
plate  ? First  let  me  look  at  the  back, 
and  see  who  made  it.  Copeland. 

Copeland  ! Stop  a moment.  Was 
it  yesterday  I visited  Copeland’s  works, 
and  saw  them  making  plates?  _ In  the 
confusion  of  travelling  about,  it  might 
be  yesterday  or  it  might  be  yesterday 
month  ; but  I think  it  was  yesterday. 
I appeal  to  the  plate.  The  plate  says, 
decidedly,  yesterday.  I find  the  plate, 
as  I look  at  it,  growing  into  a compan- 
ion. 

Don’t  you  remember  (says  the  plate) 
how  you  steamed  away,  yesterday  morn- 
ing, in  the  bright  sun  and  the  east  wind, 
along  the  valley  of  the  sparkling  Trent? 
Don’t  you  recollect  how  many  kilns  you 
flew  past,  looking  like  the  bowls  of  gi- 
gantic tobacco-pipes,  cut  short  off  from 
the  stem  and  turned  upside  down  ? 
And  the  fires,  and  the  smoke,  and  the 
roads  made  with  bits  of  crockery,  as  if 
all  the  plates  and  dishes  in  the  civil- 
ized world  had  been  Macadamized, 
expressly  for  the  laming  of  all  the 
horses  ? Of  course  I do  ! 

And  don’t  you  remember  (says  the 
plate)  how  you  alighted  at  Stoke,  — a 
picturesque  heap  of  houses,  kilns, 
smoke,  wharfs,  canals,  and  river,  lying 
(as  was  most  appropriate)  in  a basin,  — 
and  how,  after  climbing  up  the  sides 
of  the  basin  to  look  at  the  prospect, 
you  trundled  down  again  at  a walking- 
match  pace,  and  straight  proceeded  to 
my  father’s,  Copeland’s,  where  the 
whole  of  my  family,  high  and  low,  rich 
and  poor,  are  turned  out  upon  the 
world  from  our  nursery  and  seminary, 
covering  some  fourteen  acres  of  ground? 
And  don’t  you  remember  what  we  spring 
from,  — heaps  of  lumps  of  clay,  partial- 
ly prepared  and  cleaned  in  Devonshire 


and  Dorsetshire,  whence  said  clay  prin- 
cipally comes,  — and  hills  of  flint,  with- 
out which  we  should  want  our  ringing 
sound,  and  should  never  be  musical? 
And  as  to  the  flint,  don’t  you  recollect 
that  it  is  first  burnt  in  kilns,  and  is  then 
laid  under  the  four  iron  feet  of  a demon 
slave,  subject  to  violent  stamping  fits, 
who,  when  they  come  on,  stamps  away 
insanely  with  his  four  iron  legs,  and 
would  crush  all  the  flint  in  the  Isle  of 
Thanet  to  powder,  without  leaving  off? 
And  as  to  the  clay,  don’t  you  recollect 
how  it  is  put  into  mills  or  teazers,  and 
is  sliced,  and  dug,  and  cut  at,  by  end- 
less knives,  clogged  and  sticky,  but 
persistent,  — and  is  pressed  out  of  that 
machine  through  a square  trough, 
whose  form  it  takes,  — and  is  cut  off  in 
square  lumps  and  thrown  into  a vat, 
and  there  mixed  with  water,  and  beat- 
en to  a pulp  by  paddle-wheels,  — and 
is  then  run  into  a rough  house,  all 
rugged  beams  and  ladders  splashed 
with  white,  — superintended  by  Grind- 
off  the  Miller,  in  his  working  clothes, 
all  splashed  with  white,  — where  it 
passes  through  no  end  of  machinery- 
moved  sieves  all  splashed  with  white, 
arranged  in  an  ascending  scale  of  fine- 
ness (some  so  fine  that  three  hundred 
silk  threads  cross  each  other  in  a sin- 
gle square  inch  of  their  surface),  and 
all  in  a violent  state  of  ague,  with 
their  teeth  forever  chattering,  and  their 
bodies  forever  shivering?  And  as  to 
the  flint  again,  isn’t  it  mashed  and  mol- 
lified and  troubled  and  soothed,  exactly 
as  rags  are  in  a paper-mill,  until  it  is  re- 
duced to  a pap  so  fine  that  it  contains  no 
atom  of  “grit  ” perceptible  to  the  nicest 
taste  ? And  as  to  the  flint  and  the  clay 
together,  are  they  not,  after  all  this, 
mixed  in  the  proportion  of  five  of  clay 
to  one  of  flint,  and  isn’t  the  compound 
— known  as  “slip” — run  into  oblong 
troughs,  where  its  superfluous  moisture 
may  evaporate;  and  finally,  isn’t  it 
slapped  and  banged  and  beaten  and 
patted  and  kneaded  and  wedged  and 
knocked  about  like  butter,  until  it  be- 
comes a beautiful  gray  dough,  ready 
for  the  potter’s  use? 

In  regard  of  the  potter,  popularly  so 
called  (says  the  plate),  you  don’t  mean 
to  say  you  have  forgotten  that  a work- 


A PLATED  ARTICLE. 


445 


man  called  a Thrower  is  the  man  under 
whose  hand  this  gray  dough  takes  the 
shapes  of  the  simpler  household  ves- 
sels as  quickly  as  the  eye  can  follow  ? 
You  don’t  mean  to  say  you  cannot  call 
him  up  before  you,  sitting,  with  his  at- 
tendant woman,  at  his  potter’s  wheel, 

— a disk  about  the  size  of  a dinner- 
plate,  revolving  on  two  drums  slowly 
or  quickly  as  he  wills,  — who  made  you 
a complete  breakfast  set  for  a bache- 
lor, as  a good-humored  little  off-hand 
joke?  You  remember  how  he  took  up 
as  much  dough  as  he  wanted,  and, 
throwing  it  on  his  wheel,  in  a moment 
fashioned  it  into  a teacup,  — caught  up 
more  clay  and  made  a saucer,  — a lar- 
ger dab  and  whirled  it  into  a teapot, 

— winked  at  a smaller  dab  and  con- 
verted it  into  the  lid  of  the  teapot,  ac- 
curately fitting  by  the  measurement  of 
his  eye  alone,  — coaxed  a middle-sized 
dab  for  two  seconds,  broke  it,  turned  it 
over*  at  the  rim,  and  made  a milkpot, 

— laughed,  and  turned  out  a slop-basin, 

- — coughed,  and  provided  for  the  su- 
gar? Neither,  I think,  are  you  oblivi- 
ous of  the  newer  mode  of  making  va- 
rious articles,  but.  especially  basins,  ac- 
cording to  which  improvement  a mould 
revolves  instead  of  a disk?  For  you 
must  remember  (says  the  plate)  how 
you  saw  the  mould  of  a little  basin 
spinning  round  and  round,  and  how 
the  workman  smoothed  and  pressed  a 
handful  of  dough  upon  it,  and  how  with 
an  instrument  called  a profile  (a  piece 
of  wood,  representing  the  profile  of  a 
basin’s  foot)  he  cleverly  scraped  and 
carved  the  ring  which  makes  the  base 
of  any  such  basin,  and  then  took  the 
basin  off  the  lathe  like  a doughy  skull- 
cap to  be  dried,  and  afterwards  (in 
what  is  called  a green  state)  to  be  put 
into  a second  lathe,  there  to  be  finished 
and  burnished  with  a steel  burnisher? 
And  as  to  moulding  in  general  (says 
the  plate),  it  can’t  be  necessary  for  me 
to  remind  you  that  all  ornamental  ar- 
ticles, and  indeed  all  articles  not  quite 
circular,  are  made  in  moulds.  F or  you 
must  remember  how  you  saw  the  vege- 
table dishes,  for  example,  being  made 
in  moulds ; and  how  the  handles  of 
teacups,  and  the  spouts  of  teapots,  and 
the  feet  of  tureens,  and  so  forth,  are  all 


made  in  little  separate  moulds,  and 
are  each  stuck  on  to  the  body  corpo- 
rate, of  which  it  is  destined  to  form  a 
part,  with  a stuff  called  “slag”  as 
quickly  as  you  can  recollect  it.  Fur- 
ther, you  learnt,  — you  know  you  did,  — 
in  the  same  visit,  how  the  beautiful 
sculptures  in  the  delicate  new  material 
called  Parian,  are  all  constructed  in 
moulds  ; how,  into  that  material,  ani- 
mal bones  are  ground  up,  because  the 
phosphate  of  lime  contained  in  bones 
makes  it  translucent ; how  everything 
is  moulded  before  going  into  the  fire, 
one  fourth  larger  than  it  is  intended  to 
come  out  of  the  fire,  because  it  shrinks 
in  that  proportion  in  the  intense  heat ; 
how,  when  a figure  shrinks  unequally, 
it  is  spoiled,  — emerging  from  the  fur- 
nace a misshapen  birth  ; a big  head 
and  a little  body,  or  a little  head  and 
a big  body,  or  a Quasimodo  with  long 
arms  and  short  legs,  or  a Miss  Biffin 
with  neither  legs  nor  arms  worth  men- 
tioning. 

And  as  to  the  Kilns,  in  which  the 
firing  takes  place,  and  in  which  some 
of  the  more  precious  articles  are  burnt 
repeatedly,  in  various  stages  of  their 
process  towards  completion,  — as  to 
the  Kilns  (says  the  plate,  warming  with 
the  recollection),  if  you  don’t  remember 
them  with  a horrible  interest,  what  did 
you  ever  go  to  Copeland’s  for  ? When 
you  stood  inside  of  one  of  those  inverted 
bowls  of  a Pre-Adamite  tobacco-pipe, 
looking  up  at  the  blue  sky  through  the 
open  top  far  off,  as  you  might  have 
looked  up  from  a well,  sunk  under  the 
centre  of  the  pavement  of  the  Pantheon 
at  Rome,  had  you  the  least  idea  where 
you  were?  And  when  you  found  your- 
self surrounded,  in  that  dome-shaped 
cavern,  by  innumerable  columns  of  an 
unearthly  order  of  architecture,  support- 
ing nothing,  and  squeezed  close  together 
as  if  a Pre-Adamite  Samson  had  taken 
a vast  hall  in  his  arms  and  crushed  it 
into  the  smallest  possible  space,  had 
you  the  least  idea  what  they  were?  No 
(says  the  plate),  of  course  not ! And 
when  you  found  that  each  of  those  pil- 
lars was  a pile  of  ingeniously  made 
vessels  of  coarse  clay,  — called  Saggers, 
— looking,  when  separate,  like  raised 
1 pies  for  the  table  of  the  mighty  Giant 


446 


A PLATED  ARTICLE. 


Blunderbore,  and  now  all  full  of  various 
articles  of  pottery  ranged  in  them  in 
baking  order,  the  bottom  of  each  vessel 
serving  for  the  cover  of  the  one  below, 
and  the  whole  Kiln  rapidly  filling  with 
these,  tier  upon  tier,  until  the  last 
workman  should  have  barely  room  to 
crawl  out,  before  the  closing  of  the 
jagged  aperture  in  the  wall  and  the 
kindling  of  the  gradual  fire  ; did  you  not 
stand  amazed  to  think  that  all  the  year 
round  these  dread  chambers  are  heat- 
ing, white  hot,  and  cooling,  and  filling, 
and  emptying,  and  being  bricked  up, 
and  broken  open,  humanly  speaking,  for 
ever  and  ever?  To  be  sure  you  did  ! 
And  standing  in  one  of  those  Kilns 
nearly  full,  and  seeing  a free  crow  shoot 
across  the  aperture  atop,  and  learning 
how  the  fire  would  wax  hotter  and  hot- 
ter by  slow  degrees,  and  would  cool 
similarly  through  a space  of  from  forty 
to  sixty  hours,  did  no  remembrance  of 
the  days  when  human  clay  was  burnt 
oppress  you?  Yes,  I think  so!  I sus- 
pect that  some  fancy  of  a fiery  haze 
and  a shortening  breath,  and  a growing 
heat,  and  a gasping  prayer ; and  a fig- 
ure in  black  interposing  between  you 
and  the  sky  (as  figures  in  black  are  very 
apt  to  do),  and  looking  down,  before  it 
grew  too  hot  to  look  and  live,  upon  the 
Heretic  in  his  edifying  agony,  — I say  I 
suspect  (says  the  plate)  that  some  such 
fancy  was  pretty  strong  upon  you  when 
you  went  out  into  the  air,  and  blessed 
God  for  the  bright  spring  day  and  the 
degenerate  times  ! 

After  that,  I needn’t  remind  you 
what  a relief  it  was  to  see  the  simplest 
process  of  ornamenting  this  “ biscuit  ” 
(as  it  is  called  when  baked)  with  brown 
circles  and  blue  trees,  — converting  it 
into  the  common  crockery-ware  that 
is  exported  to  Africa,  and  used  in  cot- 
tages at  home.  For  (says  the  plate) 
I am  w’ell  persuaded  that  you  bear  in 
mind  how  those  particular  jugs  and 
mugs  were  once  more  set  upon  a lathe 
and  „put  in  motion ; and  how  a man 
blew  the  brown  color  (having  a strong 
natural  affinity  with  the  material  in 
that  condition)  on  them  from  a blow- 
pipe as  they  twirled ; and  how  his 
daughter,  w'ith  a common  brush, 
dropped  blotches  of  blue  upon  them 


in  the  right  places ; and  how,  tilting 
the  blotches  upside  down,  she  made 
them  run  into  rude  images  of  trees, 
and  there  an  end. 

And  did  n’t  you  see  (says  the  plate) 
planted  upon  my  own  brother  that 
astounding  blue  willow,  with  knobbed 
and  gnarled  trunk,  and  foliage  of  blue 
ostrich-feathers,  which  gives  our  family 
the  title  of  “ willow  pattern  ” ? And 
did  n’t  you  observe,  transferred  upon 
him  at  the  same  time,  that  blue  bridge 
which  spans  nothing,  growing  out 
from  the  roots  of  the  willow  ; and  the 
three  blue  Chinese  going  over  it  into 
a blue  temple,  which  has  a fine  crop 
of  blue  bushes  sprouting  out  of  the 
roof;  and  a blue  boat  sailing  above 
them,  the  mast  of  which  is  burglarious- 
ly sticking  itself  into  the  foundations 
of  a blue  villa,  suspended  sky-high, 
surmounted  by  a lump  of  blue  rock, 
sky-higher,  and  a couple  of  billing 
blue  birds,  sky-highest,  — together  with 
the  rest  of  that  amusing  blue  land- 
scape which  has,  in  deference  to  our 
revered  ancestors  of  the  Cerulean  Em- 
pire, and  in  defiance  of  every  known 
law  of  perspective,  adorned  millions 
of  our  family  ever  since  the  days  of 
platters?  Did  n’t  you  inspect  the  cop- 
per-plate on  which  my  pattern  was 
deeply  engraved?  Did  n’t  you  perceive 
an  impression  of  it  taken  in  cobalt 
color  at  a cylindrical  press,  upon  a 
leaf  of  thin  paper,  streaming  from  a 
plunge-bath  of  soap  and  water?  Wasn’t 
the  paper  impression  daintily  spread 
by  a light-fingered  damsel  (you  know 
you  admired  her !)  over  the  surface 
of  the  plate,  and  the  back  of  the  paper 
rubbed  prodigiously  hard  — with  a long 
tight  roll  of  flannel,  tied  up  like  a round 
of  hung  beef — without  so  much  as 
ruffling  the  paper,  wet  as  it  was  ? Then 
(says  the  plate)  was  not  the  papet 
washed  away  with  a sponge,  and  did  n’t 
there  appear,  set  off  upon  the  plate, 
this  identical  piece  of  Pre-Raphaelite 
blue  distemper  which  you  now  behold  ? 
Not  to  be  denied  ! I had  seen  all 
this,  and  more.  I had  been  shown, 
at  Copeland’s,  patterns  of  beautiful 
design,  in  faultless  perspective,  which 
are  causing  the  ugly  old  willow  to  with- 
er out  of  public  favor,  and  which. 


A PLATED  ARTICLE. 


447 


being  quite  as  cheap,  insinuate  good 
wholesome  natural  art  into  the  hum- 
blest households.  When  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Sprat  have  satisfied  their  material  tastes 
by  that  equal  division  of  fat  and  lean 
which  has  made  their  menage  immor- 
tal ; and  have,  after  the  elegant  tradi- 
tion, “licked  the  platter  clean,”  they 
can  — thanks  to  modern  artists  in  clay 

— feast  their  intellectual  tastes  upon 
excellent  delineations  of  natural  ob- 
jects. 

This  reflection  prompts  me  to  trans- 
fer my  attention  from  the  blue  plate 
to  the  forlorn  but  cheerfully  painted 
vase  on  the  sideboard.  And  surely 
(says  the  plate)  you  have  not  forgotten 
how  the  outlines  of  such  groups  of 
flowers  as  you  see  there  are  printed, 
just  as  I was  printed,  and  are  afterwards 
shaded  and  filled  in  with  metallic  col- 
ors by  women  and  girls?  As  to  the 
aristocracy  of  our  order,  made  of  the 
finer  clay  — porcelain  peers  and  peer- 
esses ; — the  slabs,  and  panels,  and 
table-tops,  and  tazze  ; the  endless  no- 
bility and  gentry  of  dessert,  breakfast, 
and  tea  services  ; the  gemmed  perfume 
bottles,  and  scarlet  and  gold  salvers ; 
you  saw  that  they  were  painted  by 
artists,  with  metallic  colors  laid  on  with 
camel-hair  pencils,  and  afterwards  burnt 
in. 

And  talking  of  burning  in  (says  the 
plate),  did  n’t  you  find  that  every  sub- 
'ect,  from  the  willow-pattern  to  the 
andscape  after  Turner, — having  been 
framed  upon  clay  or  porcelain  biscuit, 

— has  to  be  glazed?  Of  course,  you 


saw  the  glaze  — composed  of  various 
vitreous  materials  — laid  over  every 
article  ; and  of  course  you  witnessed 
the  close  imprisonment  of  each  piece 
in  saggers  upon  the  separate  system 
rigidly  enforced  by  means  of  fine-point- 
ed earthenware  stilts  placed  between 
the  articles  to  prevent  the  slightest 
communication  or  contact.  We  had 
in  my  time  — and  I suppose  it  is  the 
same  now  — fourteen  hours’  firing  to 
fix  the  glaze  and  to  make  it  “ run”  all 
over  us  equally,  so  as  to  put  a good 
shiny  and  unscratchable  surface  upon 
us.  Doubtless,  you  observed  that  one 
sort  of  glaze  — called  printing-body  — 
is  burnt  into  the  better  sort  of  ware 
before  it  is  printed.  Upon  this  you 
saw  some  of  the  finest  steel  engravings 
transferred,  to  be  fixed  by  an  after 
glazing,  — did  n’t  you  ? Why,  of  course 
you  did  ! 

Of  course  I did.  I had  seen  and 
enjoyed  everything  that  the  plate 
recalled  to  me,  and  had  beheld  with 
admiration  how  the  rotatory  motion 
which  keeps  this  ball  of  ours  in  its 
place  in  the  great  scheme,  with  all  its 
busy  mites  upon  it,  was  necessary 
throughout  the  process,  and  could  only 
be  dispensed  with  in  the  fire.  So, 
listening  to  the  plate’s  reminders,  and 
musing  upon  them,  I got  through  the 
evening  after  all,  and  went  to  bed.  I 
made  but  one  sleep  of  it,  — for  which, 
I have  no  doubt,  I am  also  indebted 
to  the  plate,  — and  left  the  lonely  Dodo 
in  the  morning,  quite  at  peace  with  it, 
before  the  bandy-legged  baby  was  up. 


443 


OUR  HONORABLE  FRIEND. 


OUR  HONORABLE  FRIEND. 


We  are  delighted  to  find  that  he  has 
got  in ! Our  honorable  friend  is  tri- 
umphantly returned  to  serve  in  the  .next 
Parliament.  He  is  the  honorable  mem- 
ber for  Verbosity,  — the  best  represent- 
ed place  in  England. 

Our  honorable  friend  has  issued  an 
address  of  congratulation  to  the  Elec- 
tors, which  is  worthy  of  that  noble  con- 
stituency, and  is  a very  pretty  piece  of 
composition.  In  electing  him,  he  says, 
they  have  covered  themselves  with 
glory,  and  England  has  been  true  to 
herself.  (In  his  preliminary  address  he 
had  remarked,  in  a poetical  quotation  of 
great  rarity,  that  naught  could  make  us 
rue,  if  England  to  herself  did  prove  but 
true.) 

Our  honorable  friend  delivers  a pre- 
diction, in  the  same  document,  that  the 
feeble  minions  of  a faction  will  never 
hold  up  their  heads  any  more  ; and  that 
the  finger  of  scorn  will  point  at  them  in 
their  dejected  state,  through  countless 
ages  of  time.  Further,  that  the  hire- 
ling tools  that  would  destroy  the  sacred 
bulwarks  of  our  nationality  are  unwor- 
thy of  the  name  of  Englishmen ; and 
that  so  long  as  the  sea  shall  roll  around 
our  ocean-girded  isle,  so  long  his  motto 
shall  be,  No  Surrender.  Certain  dog- 
ged persons  of  low  principles  and  no 
intellect  have  disputed  whether  any- 
body knows  who  the  minions  are,  or 
what  the  faction  is,  or  which  are  the 
hireling  tools,  and  which  the  sacred 
bulwarks,  or  what  it  is  that  is  never 
to  be  surrendered,  and  if  not,  why 
not?  But  our  honorable  friend,  the 
member  for  Verbosity,  knows  all  about 
it. 

Our  honorable  friend  has  sat  in 
several  Parliaments,  and  given  bushels 
of  votes.  He  is  a man  of  that  profund- 
ity in  the  matter  of  vote-giving,  that 
ou  never  know  what  he  means.  When 
e seems  to  be  voting  pure  white,  he 
may  be  in  reality  voting  jet  black. 


When  he  says  Yes,  it  is  just  as  likely 
as  not  — or  rather  more  so  — that  he 
means  No.  This  is  the  statesmanship 
of  our  honorable  friend.  It  is  in  this, 
that  he  differs  from  mere  unparliament- 
ary men.  You  may  not  know  what  he 
meant  then,  or  what  he  means  now ; 
but  our  honorable  friend  knows,  and 
did  from  the  first  know,  both  what  he 
meant  then  and  what  he  means  now ; 
and  when  he  said  he  did  n’t  mean  it 
then,  he  did  in  fact  say  that  he  means 
it  now.  And  if  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  did  not  then,  and  do  not  now, 
know  what  he  did  mean  then,  or  does 
mean  now,  our  honorable  friend  will  be 
glad  to  receive  an  explicit  declaration 
from  you  whether  you  are  prepared  to 
destroy  the  sacred  bulwarks  of  our  na- 
tionality. 

Our  honorable  friend,  the  member  for 
Verbosity,  has  this  great  attribute,  that 
he  always  means  something,  and  always 
means  the  same  thing.  When  he  came 
down  to  that  House  and  mournfully 
boasted,  in  his  place,  as  an  individual 
member  of  the  assembled  Commons  of 
this  great  and  happy  country,  that  he 
could  lay  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 
solemnly  declare  that  no  consideration 
on  earth  should  induce  him,  at  any  time 
or  under  any  circumstances,  to  go  as 
far  north  as  Berwick-upon-Tweed  ; and 
when  he  nevertheless,  next  year,  did  go 
to  Berwick-upon-Tweed,  and  even  be- 
yond it,  to  Edinburgh,  he  had  one  sin- 
gle meaning,  one  and  indivisible.  And 
God  forbid  (our  honorable  friend  says) 
that  he  should  waste  another  argument 
upon  the  man  who  professes  that  he 
cannot  understand  it ! “I  do  not,  gen- 
tlemen,” said  our  honorable  friend,  with 
indignant  emphasis  and  amid  great 
cheering,  on  one  such  public  occasion, 
— “I  do  not,  gentlemen,  I am  free  to 
confess,  envy  the  feelings  of  that  man 
whose  mind  is  so  constituted  as  that  he 
can  hold  such  language  to  me,  and  yet 


OUR  HONORABLE  FRIEND. 


449 


lay  his  head  upon  his  pillow,  claiming 
to  be  a native  of  that  land, 

“Whose  march  is  o’er  the  mountain-wave, 
Whose  home  is  on  the  deep  ! ” 

(Vehement  cheering,  and  man  ex- 
pelled.) 

When  our  honorable  friend  issued  his 
preliminary  address  to  the  constituent 
body  of  Verbosity  on  the  occasion  of 
one  particular  glorious  triumph,  it  was 
supposed  by  some  of  his  enemies  that 
even  he  would  be  placed  in  a situation 
of  difficulty  by  the  following  compara- 
tively trifling  conjunction  of  circum- 
stances. The  dozen  noblemen  and 
gentlemen  whom  our  honorable  friend 
supported  had  “come  in,”  expressly 
to  do  a certain  thing.  Now,  four  of  the 
dozen  said,  at  a certain  place,  that  they 
did  n’t  mean  to  do  that  thing,  and  had 
never  meant  to  do  it ; another  four  of 
the  dozen  said,  at  another  certain  place, 
that  they  did  mean  to  do  that  thing, 
and  had  always  meant  to  do  it ; two  of 
the  remaining  four  said,  at  two  other 
certain  places,  that  they  meant  to  do 
half  of  that  thing  (but  differed  about 
which  half),  and  to  do  a variety  of 
nameless  wonders  instead  of  the  other 
half ; and  one  of  the  remaining  two  de- 
clared that  the  thing  itself  was  dead 
and  buried,  while  the  other  as  strenu- 
ously protested  that  it  was  alive  and 
kicking.  It  was  admitted  that  the  par- 
liamentary genius  of  our  honorable 
friend  would  be  quite  able  to  reconcile 
such  small  discrepancies  as  these;  but 
there  remained  the  additional  difficulty 
that  each  of  the  twelve  made  entirely 
different  statements  at  different  places, 
and  that  all  the  twelve  called  every- 
thing visible  and  invisible,  sacred  and 
profane,  to  witness  that  they  were  a 
perfectly  impregnable  phalanx  of  una- 
nimity. This,  it  was  apprehended,  would 
be  a stumbling-block  to  our  honorable 
friend. 

The  difficulty  came  before  our  hon- 
orable friend  in  this  way.  He  went 
down  to  Verbosity  to  meet  his  free  and 
independent  constituents,  and  to  render 
an  account  (as  he  informed  them  in  the 
local  papers)  of  the  trust  they  had  con- 
fided to  his  hands,  — that  trust  which 
it  was  pne  of  the  proudest  privileges  of 

29 


an  Englishman  to  possess,  — that  trust 
which  it  was  the  proudest  privilege  of 
an  Englishman  to  hold.  It  may  be 
mentioned  as  a proof  of  the  great  gen- 
eral interest  attaching  to  the  contest, 
that  a Lunatic  whom  nobody  employed 
or  knew  went  down  to  Verbosity  with 
several  thousand  pounds  in  gold,  deter- 
mined to  give  the  whole  away,  — which 
he  actually  did  ; and  that  all  the  publi- 
cans opened  their  houses  for  nothing. 
Likewise,  several  fighting  men,  and  a 
patriotic  group  of  burglars,  sportively 
armed  with  life-preservers,  proceeded 
(in  barouches  and  very  drunk)  to  the 
scene  of  action  at  their  own  expense  ; 
these  children  of  nature  having  con- 
ceived a warm  attachment  to  our  hon- 
orable friend,  and  intending,  in  their 
artless  manner,  to  testify  it  by  knock- 
ing the  voters  in  the  opposite  interest 
on  the  head. 

Our  honorable  friend  being  come  into 
the  presence  of  his  constituents,  and 
having  professed  with  great  suavity 
that  he  was  delighted  to  see  his  good 
friend  Tipkisson  there,  in  his  working- 
dress,  — his  good  friend  Tipkisson  be- 
ing an  inveterate  saddler,  who  always 
opposes  him,  and  for  whom  he  has  a 
mortal  hatred,  — made  them  a brisk, 
ginger-beery  sort  of  speech,  in  which 
he  showed  them  how  the  dozen  noble- 
men and  gentlemen  had  (in  exactly  ten 
days  from  their  coming  in)  exercised 
a surprisingly  beneficial  effect  on  the 
whole  financial  condition  of  Europe, 
had  altered  the  state  of  the  exports  and 
imports  for  the  current  half-year,  had 
prevented  the  drain  of  gold,  had  made 
all  that  matter  right  about  the  glut  of 
the  raw  material,  and  had  restored  all 
sorts  of  balances  with  which  the  super- 
seded noblemen  and  gentlemen  had 
played  the  deuce,  — and  all  this,  with 
wheat  at  so  much  a quarter,  gold  at  so 
much  an  ounce,  and  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land discounting  good  bills  at  so  much 
per  cent  ! He  might  be  asked,  he  ob- 
served in  a peroration  of  great  power, 
what  were  his  principles?  His  princi- 
ples were  what  they  always  had  been. 
His  principles  were  written  in  the  coun- 
tenances of  the  lion  and  unicorn  ; were 
stamped  indelibly  upon  the  royal  shield 
which  those  grand  animals  supported. 


45® 


OUR  HONORABLE  FRIEND. 


and  upon  the  free  words  of  fire  which 
that  shield  bore.  His  principles  were, 
Britannia  and  her  sea-king  trident ! 
His  principles  were,  commercial  pros- 
perity coexistently  with  perfect  and  pro- 
found agricultural  contentment ; but 
short  of  this  he  would  never  stop.  His 
principles  were  these,  — with  the  addi- 
tion of  his  colors  nailed  to  the  mast, 
every  man’s  heart  in  the  right  place, 
every  man’s  eye  open,  every  man’s 
hand  ready,  every  man’s  mind  on  the 
alert.  His  principles  were  these,  con- 
currently with  a general  revision  of 
something,  — speaking  generally,  — and 
a possible  readjustment  of  something 
else,  not  to  be  mentioned  more  particu- 
larly. His  principles,  to  sum  up  all  in 
a word  were,  Hearths  and  Altars,  La- 
bor and  Capital,  Crown  and  Sceptre, 
Elephant  and  Castle.  And  now,  if  his 
good  friend  Tipkisson  required  any  fur- 
ther explanation  from  him,  he  (our  hon- 
orable friend)  was  there,  willing  and 
ready  to  give  it. 

Tipkisson,  who  all  this  time  had 
stood  conspicuous  in  the  crowd,  with 
his  arms  folded  and  his  eyes  intently 
fastened  on  our  honorable  friend, — Tip- 
kisson, who  throughout  our  honorable 
friend’s  address  had  not  relaxed  a mus- 
cle of  his  visage,  but  had  stood  there, 
wholly  unaffected  by  the  torrent  of 
eloquence,  an  object  of  contempt  and 
scorn  to  mankind  (by  which  we  mean, 
of  course,  to  the  supporters  of  our  honor- 
able friend),  — Tipkisson  now  said  that 
he  was  a plain  man  (cries  of  “You  are 
indeed  ! ”),  and  that  what  he  wanted 
to  know  was,  what  our  honorable  friend 
and  the  dozen  noblemen  and  gentlemen 
were  driving  at  ? 

Our  honorable  friend  immediately  re- 
plied, “ At  the  illimitable  perspective.” 

It  was  considered  by  the  whole  as- 
sembly that  this  happy  statement  of 
our  honorable  friend’s  political  views 
ought,  immediately,  to  have  settled 
Tipkisson’s  business  and  covered  him 
with  confusipn  ; but  that  implacable  per- 
son, regardless  of  the  execrations  that 
were  heaped  upon  him  from  all  sides 
(by  which  we  mean,  of  course,  from 
our  honorable  friend’s  side),  persisted 
in  retaining  an  unmoved  countenance, 
and  obstinately  retorted  that  if  our 


honorable  friend  meant  that,  he  wished 
to  know  what  that  meant. 

It  was  in  repelling  this  most  objec- 
tionable and  indecent  opposition,  that 
our  honorable  friend  displayed  his  high- 
est qualifications  for  the  representation 
of  Verbosity.  His  warmest  supporters 
present,  and  those  who  were  best  ac- 
quainted with  his  generalship,  supposed 
that  the  moment  was  come  when  he 
would  fall  back  upon  the  sacred  bul- 
warks of  our  nationality.  No  such 
thing.  He  replied  thus  : “ My  good 
friend  Tipkisson,  gentlemen,  wishes  to 
know  what  I mean  when  he  asks  me 
what  we  are  driving  at,  and  when  I 
candidly  tell  him,  at  the  illimitable  per- 
spective, he  wishes  (if  I understand 
him)  to  know  what  I mean  ? ” “I 
do  ! ” says  Tipkisson,  amid  cries  of 
“Shame,”  and  “Down  with  him.” 
“Gentlemen,”  says  our  honorable 
friend,  “ I will  indulge  my  good  friend 
Tipkisson,  by  telling  him,  both  what  I 
mean  and  what  I don’t  mean.  (Cheers 
and  cries  of  “ Give  it  him  ! ”)  Be  it 
known  to  him  then,  and  to  all  whom  it 
may  concern,  that  I do  mean  altars, 
hearths,  and  homes,  and  that  I don’t 
mean  mosques  and  Mahommedanism!” 
The  effect  of  this  home-thrust  was  ter- 
rific. Tipkisson  (who  is  a Baptist)  was 
hooted  down  and  hustled  out,  and  has 
ever  since  been  regarded  as  a Turkish 
Renegade  who  contemplates  an  early 
pilgrimage  to  Mecca.  Nor  was  he  the 
only  discomfited  man.  The  charge, 
while  it  stuck  to  him,  was  magically 
transferred  to  our  honorable  friend’s 
opponent,  who  was  represented  in  an 
immense  variety  of  placards  as  a firm 
believer  in  Mahomet  ; and  the  men  of 
Verbosity  were  asked  to  choose  between 
our  honorable  friend  and  the  Bible,  and 
our  honorable  friend’s  opponent  and  the 
Koran.  They  decided  for  our  honorable 
friend,  and  rallied  round  the  illimitable 
perspective. 

It  has  been  claimed  for  our  honora- 
ble friend,  with  much  appearance  of 
reason,  that  he  was  the  first  to  bend 
sacred  matters  to  electioneering  tactics. 
However  this  may  be,  the  fine  prece- 
dent was  undoubtedly  set  in  a Verbosi- 
ty election  ; and  it  is  certain  that  our 
honorable  friend  (who  was  a disciple  of 


OUR  SCHOOL. 


Brahma  in  his  youth,  and  was  a Budd- 
hist when  we  had  the  honor  of  travel- 
ling with  him  a few  years  ago)  always 
professes  in  public  more  anxiety  than 
the  whole  Bench  of  Bishops  regarding 
the  theological  and  doxological  opinions 
of  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the 
United  Kingdom. 

As  we  began  by  saying  that  our  hon- 
orable friend  has  got  in  again  at  this 
last  election,  and  that  we  are  delighted 
to  find  that  he  has  got  in,  so  we  will 
conclude.  Our  honorable  friend  cannot 
come  in  for  Verbosity  too  often.  It  is  a 
good  sign  ; it  is  a great  example.  It  is 
to  men  like  our  honorable  friend,  and 
to  contests  like  those  from  which  he 
comes  triumphant,  that  we  are  mainly 
indebted  for  that  ready  interest  in  poli- 
tics, that  fresh  enthusiasm  in  the  dis- 
charge of  the  duties  of  citizenship,  that 
ardent  desire  to  rush  to  the  poll,  at 


45i 

present  so  manifest  throughout  Eng- 
land. When  the  contest  lies  (as  it 
sometimes  does)  between  two  such  men 
as  our  honorable  friend,  it  stimulates 
the  finest  emotions  of  our  nature,  and 
awakens  • the  highest  admiration  of 
which  our  heads  and  hearts  are  capa- 
ble. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  predict  that  our 
honorable  friend  will  be  always  at  his 
post  in  the  ensuing  session.  What- 
ever the  question  be,  or  whatever  the 
form  of  its  discussion,  — address  to  the 
crown,  election  petition,  expenditure  of 
the  public  money,  extension  of  the  pub- 
lic suffrage,  education,  crime, — in  the 
whole  house,  in  committee  of  the  whole 
house,  in  select  committee ; in  every 
parliamentary  discussion  of  every  sub- 
ject everywhere ; the  Honorable  Mem- 
her  for  Verbosity  will  most  certainly  be 
found. 


OUR  SCHOOL. 


We  went  to  look  at  it,  only  this  last 
midsummer,  and  found  that  the  rail- 
way had  cut  it  up  root  and  branch.  A 
great  trunk-line  had  swallowed  the  play- 
ground, sliced  away  the  school-room, 
and  pared  off  the  corner  of  the  house ; 
which,  thus  curtailed  of  its  proportions, 
presented  itself,  in  a green  stage  of 
stucco,  profilewise  towards  the  road, 
like  a forlorn  flat-iron  without  a handle, 
standing  on  end. 

It  seems  as  if  our  schools  were 
doomed  to  be  the  sport  of  change.  We 
have  faint  recollections  of  a Prepara- 
tory Day-School,  which  we  have  sought 
in  vain,  and  which  must  have  been 
pulled  down  to  make  a new  street,  ages 
ago.  We  have  dim  impressions,  scarce- 
ly amounting  to  a belief,  that  it  was 
over  a dyer’s  shop.  We  know  that  you 
went  up  steps  to  it ; that  you  frequently 
grazed  your  knees  in  doing  so  ; that  you 
generally  got  your  leg  over  the  scraper, 


in  trying  to  scrape  the  mud  off  a very 
unsteady  little  shoe.  The  mistress  of 
the  Establishment  holds  no  place  in 
our  memory;  but,  rampant  on  one 
eternal  door-mat,  in  an  eternal  entry 
long  and  narrow,  is  a puffy  pug-dog, 
with  a personal  animosity  towards  us, 
who  triumphs  over  Time.  The  bark  of 
that  baleful  Pug,  a certain  radiating 
way  he  had  of  snapping  at  our  unde- 
fended legs,  the  ghastly  grinning  of  his 
moist  black  muzzle  and  white  teeth, 
and  the  insolence  of  his  crisp  tail  curled 
like  a pastoral  crook,  all  live  and 
flourish.  From  an  otherwise  unac- 
countable association  of  him  with  a fid- 
dle, we  conclude  that  he  was  of  French 
extraction,  and  his  name  Fidkle.  He 
belonged  to  some  female,  chiefly  inhab- 
iting a back-parlor,  whose  life  appears 
to  us  to  have  been  consumed  in  sniff- 
ing, and  in  wearing  a brown  beaver 
bonnet.  For  her,  he  would  sit  up  and 


452 


OUR  SCHOOL. 


balance  cake  upon  his  nose,  and  not  eat 
it  until  twenty  had  been  counted.  To 
the  best  of  our  belief  we  were  once 
called  in  to  witness  this  performance ; 
when,  unable,  even  in  his  milder  mo- 
ments, to  endure  our  presence,  he  in- 
stantly made  at  us,  cake  and  all. 

Why  a something  in  mourning,  called 
“Miss  Frost,”  should  still  connect 
itself  with  our  preparatory  school,  we 
are  unable  to  say.  We  retain  no  im- 
pression of  the  beauty  of  Miss  Frost,  — 
if  she  were  beautiful  ; or  of  the  mental 
fascinations  of  Miss  Frost, — if  she 
were  accomplished  ; yet  her  name  and 
her  black  dress  hold  an  enduring  place 
in  our  remembrance.  An  equally  im- 
personal boy,  whose  name  has  long 
since  shaped  itself  unalterably  into 
“ Master  Mawls,”  is  not  to  be  dis- 
lodged from  our  brain.  Retaining  no 
vindictive  feeling  towards  Mawls, — no 
feeling  whatever,  indeed,  — we  infer  that 
neither  he  nor  we  can  have  loved  Miss 
Frost.  Our  first  impression  of  Death 
and  Burial  is  associated  with  this  form- 
less pair.  We  all  three  nestled  awfully 
in  a corner  one  wintry  day,  when  the 
wind  was  blowing  shrill,  with  Miss 
Frost’s  pinafore  over  our  heads;  and 
Miss  Frost  told  us  in  a whisper  about 
somebody  being  “ screwed  down.”  It 
is  the  only  distinct  recollection  we  pre- 
serve of  these  impalpable  creatures, 
except  a suspicion  that  the  manners  of 
Master  Mawls  were  susceptible  of  much 
improvement.  Generally  speaking,  we 
may  observe  that  whenever  we  see  a 
child  intently  occupied  with  its  nose,  to 
the  exclusion  of  all  other  subjects  of  in- 
terest, our  mind  reverts,  in  a flash,  to 
Master  Mawls. 

But  the  School  that  was  Our  School 
before  the  Railroad  came  and  over- 
threw it  was  quite  another  sort  of  place. 
We  were  old  enough  to  be  put  into 
Virgil  when  we  went  there,  and  to  get 
prizes  for  a variety  of  polishing  on  which 
the  rust  has  long  accumulated.  It  was 
a School  of  some  celebrity  in  its  neigh- 
borhood, — nobody  could  have  said  why, 
— and  we  had  the  honor  to  attain  and 
hold  the  eminent  position  of  first  boy. 
The  master  was  supposed  among  us  to 
know  nothing,  and  one  of  the  ushers 
was  supposed  to  know  everything.  We 


are  still  inclined  to  think  the  first-named 
supposition  perfectly  correct. 

We  have  a general  idea  that  its  sub- 
ject had  been  in  the  leather  trade,  and 
had  bought  us — meaning  Our  School  — 
of  another  proprietor,  who  was  immense- 
ly learned.  Whether  this  belief  had 
any  real  foundation,  we  are  not  likely 
ever  to  know  now.  The  only  branches 
of  education  with  which  he  showed  the 
least  acquaintance  were  ruling  and 
corporally  punishing.  He  was  always 
ruling  ciphering-books  with  a bloated 
mahogany  ruler,  or  smiting  the  palms 
of  offenders  with  the  same  diabolical 
instrument,  or  viciously  drawing  a pair 
of  pantaloons  tight  with  one  of  his  large 
hands,  and  caning  the  wearer  with  the 
other.  We  have  no  doubt  whatever 
that  this  occupation  was  the  principal 
solace  of  his  existence. 

A profound  respect  for  money  per- 
vaded Our  School,  which  was  of  course 
derived  from  its  Chief.  We  remember 
an  idiotic  goggled-eyed  boy,  with  a big 
head  and  half-crowns  without  end,  who 
suddenly  appeared  as  a parlor-boarder, 
and  was  rumored  to  have  come  by  sea 
from  some  mysterious  part  of  the  earth, 
where  his  parents  rolled  in  gold.  He 
was  usually  called  “ Mr.”  by  the  Chief, 
and  was  said  to  feed  in  the  parlor  on 
steaks  and  gravy  ; likewise  to  drink  cur- 
rant wine.  And  he  openly  stated  that  if 
rolls  and  coffee  were  ever  denied  him 
at  breakfast,  he  would  write  home  to 
that  unknown  part  of  the  globe  from 
which  he  had  come,  and  cause  himself 
to  be  recalled  to  the  regions  of  gold. 
He  was  put  into  no  form  or  class,  but 
learnt  alone,  as  little  as  he  liked,  — and 
he  liked  very  little,  — and  there  was  a 
belief  among  us  that  this  was  because 
he  was  too  wealthy  to  be  “ taken  down.” 
His  special  treatment,  and  our  vague 
association  of  him  with  the  sea,  and 
with  storms,  and  sharks,  and  Coral 
Reefs,  occasioned  the  wildest  legends  to 
be  circulated  as  his  history.  A tragedy 
in  blank  verse  was  written  on  the  sub- 
ject, — if  our  memory  does  not  deceive 
us,  by  the  hand  that  now  chronicles 
these  recollections,  — in  which  his  father 
figured  as  a Pirate,  and  was  shot  for  a 
voluminous  catalogue  of  atrocities  ; first 
imparting  to  his  wife  the  secret  of  the 


OUR  SCHOOL. 


453 


cave  in  which  his  wealth  was  stored, 
and  from  which  his  only  son’s  half- 
crowns  now  issued.  Dumbledon  (the 
boy’s  name)  was  represented  as  “yet 
unborn  ” when  his  brave  father  met  his 
fate  ; and  the  despair  and  grief  of  Mrs. 
Dumbledon  at  that  calamity  was  mov- 
ingly shadowed  forth  as  haying  weak- 
ened the  parlor-boarder’s  mind.  This 
production  was  received  with  great  fa- 
vor, and  was  twice  performed  with 
closed  doors  in  the  dining-room.  But 
it  got  wind,  and  was  seized  as  libellous, 
and  brought  the  unlucky  poet  into  se- 
vere affliction.  Some  two  years  after- 
wards, all  of  a sudden,  one  day  Dum- 
bledon vanished.  It  was  whispered 
that  the  Chief  himself  had  taken  him 
down  to  the  Docks,  and  reshipped  him 
for  the  Spanish  Main  ; but  nothing  cer- 
tain was  ever  known  about  his  disap- 
pearance. At  this  hour,  we  cannot 
thoroughly  disconnect  him  from  Cali- 
fornia. 

Our  School  was  rather  famous  for 
mysterious  pupils.  There  was  another 
— a heavy  young  man,  with  a large 
double-cased  silver  watch,  and  a fat 
knife  the  handle  of  which  was  a perfect 
tool-box  — who  unaccountably  appeared 
one  day  at  a special  desk  of  his  own, 
erected  close  to  that  of  the  Chief,  with 
whom  he  held  familiar  converse.  He 
lived  in  the  parlor,  and  went  out  for 
walks,  and  never  took  the  least  notice 
of  us,  — even  of  us,  the  first  boy,  — unless 
to  give  us  a depreciatory  kick,  or  grimly 
to  take  our  hat  off  and  throw  it  away, 
when  he  encountered  us  out  of  doors, 
which  unpleasant  ceremony  he  always 
performed  as  he  passed,  — not  even  con- 
descending to  stop  for  the  purpose. 
Some  of  us  believed  that  the  classical 
attainments  of  this  phenomenon  were 
terrific,  but  that  his  penmanship  and 
arithmetic  were  defective,  and  he  had 
come  there  to  mend  them  ; others,  that 
he  was  going  to  set  up  a school,  and 
had  paid  the  Chief  “ twenty-five  pound 
down,”  for  leave  to  see  Our  School  at 
work.  The  gloomier  spirits  even  said 
that  he  was  going  to  buy  us ; against 
which  contingency,  conspiracies  were 
set  on  foot  for  a general  defection  and 
running  away.  However,  he  never  did 
that.  After  staying  for  a quarter,  dur- 


ing which  period,  though  closely  ob- 
served, he  was  never  seen  to  do  any- 
thing but  make  pens  out  of  quills,  write 
small-hand  in  a secret  portfolio,  and 
punch  the  point  of  the  sharpest  blade 
m his  knife  into  his  desk  all  over  it,  he 
too  disappeared,  and  his  place  knew 
him  no  more. 

There  was  another  boy,  a fair,  meek 
boy,  with  a delicate  complexion  and 
rich  curling  hair,  who,  we  found  out,  or 
thought  we  found  out  (we  have  no  idea 
now,  and  probably  had  none  then,  on 
what  grounds,  but  it  was  confidentially 
revealed  from  mouth  to  mouth),  was  the 
son  of  a Viscount  who  had  deserted  his 
lovely  mother.  It  was  understood  that 
if  he  had  his  rights,  he  would  be  worth 
twenty  thousand  a year.  And  that  if 
his  mother  ever  met  his  father,  she 
would  shoot  him  with  a silver  pistol, 
which  she  carried,  always  loaded  to  the 
muzzle,  for  that  purpose.  He  was  a 
very  suggestive  topic.  So  was  a young 
Mulatto,  who  was  always  believed 
(though  very  amiable)  to  have  a dagger 
about  him  somewhere.  But  we  think 
they  were  both  outshone,  upon  the 
whole,  by  another  boy  who  claimed  to 
have  been  born  on  the  twenty-ninth  of 
February,  and  to  have  only  one  birth- 
day in  five  years.  We  suspect  this  to 
have  been  a fiction,  — but  he  lived  upon 
it  all  the  time  he  was  at  Our  School. 

The  principal  currency  of  Our  School 
was  slate-pencil.  It  had  some  inexplica- 
ble value,  that  was  never  ascertained, 
never  reduced  to  a standard.  To  have 
a great  hoard  of  it,  was  somehow  to  be 
rich.  We  used  to  bestow  it  in  charity, 
and  confer  it  as  a precious  boon  upon 
our  chosen  friends.  When  the  holi- 
days were  coming,  contributions  were 
solicited  for  certain  boys  whose  relatives 
were  in  India,  and  who  were  appealed 
for  under  the  generic  name  of  “ Holiday- 
stoppers,” — appropriate  marks  of  re- 
membrance that  should  enliven  and 
cheer  them  in  their  homeless  state. 
Personally,  we  always  contributed  these 
tokens  of  sympathy  in  the  form  of  slate- 
pencil,  and  always  felt  that  it  would  be 
a comfort  and  a treasure  to  them. 

Our  School  was  remarkable  for  white 
mice.  Red-polls,  linnets,  and  even  ca- 
naries were  kept  in  desks,  drawers, 


454 


OUR  SCHOOL. 


hat-boxes,  and  other  strange  refuges  for 
birds  ; but  white  mice  were  the  favorite 
stock.  The  boys  trained  the  mice 
much  better  than  the  masters  trained 
the  boys.  We  recall  one  white  mouse, 
who  lived  in  the  cover  of  a Latin  dic- 
tionary, who  ran  up  ladders,  drew 
Roman  chariots,  shouldered  muskets, 
turned  wheels,  and  even  made  a very 
creditable  appearance  on  the  stage  as 
the  Dog  of  Montargis.  He  might  have 
achieved  greater  things,  but  for  having 
the  misfortune  to  mistake  his  way  in 
a triumphal  procession  to  the  Capitol, 
when  he  fell  into  a deep  inkstand,  and 
was  dyed  black  and  drowned.  The 
mice  were  the  occasion  of  some  most 
ingenious  engineering,  in  the  construc- 
tion of  their  houses  and  instruments  of 
performance.  The  famous  one  belonged 
to  a company  of  proprietors,  some  of 
whom  have  since  made  Railroads,  En- 
ines,  and  Telegraphs ; the  chairman 
as  erected  mills  and  bridges  in  New 
Zealand. 

The  usher  at  Our  School  who  was 
considered  to  know  everything,  as  op- 
posed to  the  Chief  who  was  considered 
to  know  nothing,  was  a bony,  gentle- 
faced, clerical-looking  young  man  in 
rusty  black.  It  was  whispered  that  he 
was  sweet  upon  one  of  Maxby’s  sisters 
(Maxby  lived  close  by,  and  was  a day 
pupil),  and  further  that  he  “ favored 
Maxby.”  As  we  remember,  he  taught 
Italian  to  Maxby’s  sisters  on  half-holi- 
days. He  once  went  to  the  play  with 
them,  and  wore  a white  waistcoat  and  a 
rose,  which  was  considered  among  us 
equivalent  to  a declaration.  We  were 
of  opinion  on  that  occasion,  that  to  the 
last  moment  he  expected  Maxby’s  fa- 
ther to  ask  him  to  dinner  at  five  o’clock, 
and  therefore  neglected  his  own  dinner 
at  half  past  one,  and  finally  got  none. 
We  exaggerated  in  our  imaginations 
the  extent  to  which  he  punished  Max- 
by’s father’s  cold  meat  at  supper ; 
and  we  agreed  to  believe  that  he  was 
elevated  with  wine  and  water  when  he 
came  home.  But  we  all  liked  him ; 
for  he  had  a good  knowledge  of  boys, 
and  would  have  made  it  a much  better 
school  if  he  had  had  more  power.  He 
was  writing-master,  mathematical  mas- 
ter, English  master,  made  out  the  bills, 


mended  the  pens,  and  did  all  sorts  of 
things.  He  divided  the  little  boys  with 
the  Latin  master  (they  were  smuggled 
through  their  rudimentary  books,  at 
odd  times  when  there  was  nothing  else 
to  do),  and  he  always  called  at  parents’ 
houses  to  inquire  after  sick  boys,  be- 
cause he  had  gentlemanly  manners. 
He  was  rather  musical,  and  on  some 
remote  quarter-day  had  bought  an  old 
trombone  ; but  a bit  of  it  was  lost,  and 
it  made  the  most  extraordinary  sounds 
when  he  sometimes  tried  to  play  it  of 
an  evening.  His  holidays  never  began 
(on  account  of  the  bills)  until  long  after 
ours ; but  in  the  summer  vacations  he 
used  to  take  pedestrian  excursions  with 
ajaiapsack ; and  at  Christmas-time,  he 
went  to  see  his  father  at  Chipping  Nor- 
ton, who  we  all  said  (on  no  authority) 
was  a dairy-fed-pork-butcher.  Poor 
fellow  ! He  was  very  low  all  day  on 
Maxby’s  sister’s  wedding-day,  and  af- 
terwards was  thought  to  favor  Maxby 
more  than  ever,  though  he  had  been 
expected  to  spite  him.  He  has  been 
dead  these  twenty  years.  Poor  fellow  1 
Our  remembrance  of  Our  School 
presents  the  Latin  master  as  a colorless, 
doubled-up,  near-sighted  man  with  a 
crutch,  who  was  always  cold,  and  al- 
ways putting  onions  into  his  ears  for 
deafness,  and  always  disclosing  ends 
of  flannel  under  all  his  garments,  and 
almost  always  applying  a ball  of  pock- 
et-handkerchief to  some  part  of  his  face 
with  a screwing  action  round  and  round. 
He  was  a very  good  scholar,  and  took 
great  pains  where  he  saw  intelligence 
and  a desire  to  learn ; otherwise,  per- 
haps not.  Our  memory  presents  him 
(unless  teased  into  a passion)  with  as 
little  energy  as  color,  — as  having  been 
worried  and  tormented  into  monotonous 
feebleness,  — as  having  had  the  best 
part  of  his  life  ground  out  of  him  in 
a Mill  of  boys.  We  remember  with  ter- 
ror how  he  fell  asleep  one  sultry  after- 
noon with  the  little  smuggled  class  be- 
fore him,  and  awoke  not  when  the  foot- 
step of  the  Chief  fell  heavy  on  the  floor ; 
how  the  Chief  aroused  him,  in  the 
midst  of  a dread  silence,  and  said, 
“Mr.  Blinkins,  are  you  ill,  sir?”  how 
he  blushingly  replied,  “ Sir,  rather  so  ” ; 
how  the  Chief  retorted  with  severity, 


OUR  SCHOOL. 


455 


“ Mr.  Blinkins,  this  is  no  place  to  be 
ill  in  ” (which  was  very,  very  true),  and 
walked  back,  solemn  as  the  ghost  in 
Hamlet,  until,  catching  a wandering 
eye,  he  caned  that  boy  for  inattention, 
and  happily  expressed  his  feelings  to- 
wards the  Latin  master  through  the 
medium  of  a substitute. 

There  was  a fat  little  dancing-master 
who  used  to  come  in  a gig,  and  taught 
the  more  advanced  among  us  hornpipes 
(as  an  accomplishment  in  great  social 
demand  in  after-life) ; and  there  was  a 
brisk  little  French  master  who  used  to 
come  in  the  sunniest  weather,  with  a 
handleless  umbrella,  and  to  whom  the 
Chief  was  always  polite,  because  (as  we 
believed),  if  the  Chief  offended  him, 
he  would  instantly  address  the  Chief 
in  French,  and  forever  confound  him 
before  the  boys  with  his  inability  to  un- 
derstand or  reply. 

There  was,  besides,  a serving  man, 
whose  name  was  Phil.  Our  retrospec- 
tive glance  presents  Phil  as  a ship- 
wrecked carpenter,  cast  away  upon  the 
desert  island  of  a school,  and  carrying 
into  practice  an  ingenious  inkling  of 
many  trades.  He  mended  whatever 
was  broken,  and  made  whatever  was 
wanted.  He  was  general  glazier,  among 
other  things,  and  mended  all  the  broken 
windows  — at  the  prime  cost  (as  was 
darkly  rumored  among  us)  of  ninepence 
for  every  square  charged  three-and-six 
to  parents.  We  had  a high  opinion  of 
his  mechanical  genius,  and  generally 


held  that  the  Chief  “knew  something 
bad  of  him,”  and  on  pain  of  divulgence 
enforced  Phil  to  be  his  bondsman.  We 
particularly  remember  that  Phil  had  a 
sovereign  contempt  for  learning,  which 
engenders  in  us  a respect  for  his  sagaci- 
ty, as  it  implies  his  accurate  observa- 
tion of  the  relative  positions  of  the  Chief 
and  the  ushers.  He  was  an  impenetra- 
ble man,  who  waited  at  table  between 
whiles,  and  throughout  “the  half” 
kept  the  boxes  in  severe  custody.  He 
was  morose,  even  to  the  Chief,  and 
never  smiled,  except  at  breaking-up, 
when,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  toast, 
“ Success  to  Phil ! Hooray  ! ” he  would 
slowly  carve  a grin  out  of  his  wooden 
face,  where  itwould  remain  until  we  were 
all  gone.  Nevertheless,  one  time  when 
we  had  the  scarlet  fever  in  the  school, 
Phil  nursed  all  the  sick  boys  of  his  own 
accord,  and  was  like  a mother  to  them. 

There  was  another  school  not  far  off, 
and  of  course  our  school  could  have 
nothing  to  say  to  that  school.  It  is 
mostly  the  way  with  schools,  whether 
ofboysormen.  Well!  the  railway  has 
swallowed  up  ours,  and  the  locomotives 
now  run  smoothly  over  its  ashes. 

“ So  fades  and  languishes,  grows  dim  and 
dies. 

All  that  this  world  is  proud  of,” 

— and  is  not  proud  of,  too.  It  had  lit- 
tle reason  to  be  proud  of  Our  School, 
and  has  done  much  better  since  in  that 
way,  and  will  do  far  better  yet. 


456 


OUR  VESTRY. 


OUR  V 


We  have  the  glorious  privilege  of 
being  always  in  hot  water  if  we  like. 
We  are  a shareholder  in  a Great  Paro- 
chial British  Joint-Stock  Bank  of  Bald- 
erdash. We  have  a Vestry  in  our  bor- 
ough, and  can  vote  for  a vestryman,  — 
might  even  be  a vestryman,  mayhap, 
if  we  were  inspired  by  a lofty  and  noble 
ambition.  Which  we  are  not. 

Our  Vestry  is  a deliberative  assembly 
of  the  utmost  dignity  and  importance. 
Like  the  Senate  of  ancient  Rome,  its 
awful  gravity  overpowers  (or  ought  to 
overpower)  barbarian  visitors.  It  sits 
in  the  Capitol  (we  mean  in  the  capital 
building  erected  for  it),  chiefly  on  Sat- 
urdays, and  shakes  the  earth  to  its  cen- 
tre, with  the  echoes  of  its  thundering 
eloquence,  in  a Sunday  paper. 

To  get  into  this  Vestry  in  the  emi- 
nent capacity  of  Vestryman,  gigantic 
efforts  are  made,  and  Herculean  exer- 
tions used.  It  is  made  manifest  to  the 
dullest  capacity  at  every  election,  that 
if  we  reject  Snozzle  we  are  done  for, 
and  that  if  we  fail  to  bring  in  Blunder- 
booze  at  the  top  of  the  poll,  we  are 
unworthy  of  the  dearest  rights  of  Brit- 
ons. Flaming  placards  are  rife  on  all 
the  dead  walls  in  the  borough,  public- 
houses  hang  out  banners,  hackney-cabs 
burst  into  full-grown  flowers  of  type, 
and  everybody  is,  or  should  be,  in  a 
paroxysm  of  anxiety. 

At  these  momentous  crises  of  the 
national  fate,  we  are  much  assisted  in 
our  deliberations  by  two  eminent  vol- 
unteers ; one  of  whom  subscribes  him- 
self A Fellow- Parishioner,  the  other, 
A Rate-Payer.  Who  they  are,  or  what 
they  are.  or  where  they  are,  nobody 
knows ; but  whatever  one  asserts,  the 
other  contradicts.  They  are  both  vo- 
luminous writers,  inditing  more  epistles 
than  Lord  Chesterfield  in  a single 
week  ; and  the  greater  part  of  their 
feelings  are  too  big  for  utterance  in  any- 
thing less  than  capital  letters.  They 


ESTRY. 


require  the  additional  aid  of  whole  rows 
of  notes  of  admiration,  like  balloons, 
to  point  their  generous  indignations ; 
and  they  sometimes  communicate  a 
crushing  severity  to  stars.  As  thus  : 

MEN  OF  MOONEYMOUNT. 

Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  a * * * to  saddle 
the  parish  with  a debt  of  £2,745  6s.  gd.f 
yet  claim  to  be  a rigid  economist? 

Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  a * * * to  state  as 
a fact  what  is  proved  to  be  both  a moral 
and  a physical  impossibility  ? 

Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  a * * * to  call 
,£2,745  6 s.  9 d.  nothing;  and  nothing, 
something  ? 

Do  you,  or  do  you  not , want  a * * * * 

TO  REPRESENT  YOU  IN  THE  VESTRY  ? 

Your  consideration  of  these  questions 
is  recommended  to  you  by 

A Fellow- Parishioner. 

It  was  to  this  important  public  docu- 
ment that  one  of  our  first  orators,  Mr. 
Magg  (of  Little  Winkling  Street),  ad- 
verted, when  he  opened  the  great  debate 
of  the  fourteenth  of  November  by  say- 
ing, “ Sir,  I hold  in  my  hand  an  anony- 
mous slander  — ’’and  when  the  inter- 
ruption, with  which  he  was  at  that  point 
assailed  by  the  opposite  faction,  gave 
rise  to  that  memorable  discussion  on  a 
point  of  order  which  will  ever  be  re- 
membered with  interest  by  constitu- 
tional assemblies.  In  the  animated 
debate  to  which  we  refer,  no  fewer  than 
thirty-seven  gentlemen,  many  of  them 
of  great  eminence,  including  Mr.  Wigs- 
by  (of  Chumbledon  Square),  were  seen 
upon  their  legs  at  one  time  ; and  it  was 
on  the  same  great  occasion  that  Dog- 
ginson  — regarded  in  our  Vestry  as  “a 
regular  John  Bull  ” : we  believe,  in  con- 
sequence of  his  having  always  made  up 
his  mind  on  every  subject  without  know- 
ing  anything  about  it  — informed  an- 
other gentleman  of  similar  principles  on 


OUR  VESTRY. 


457 


the  opposite  side,  that  if  he  “cheek’d 
him,”  he  would  resort  to  the  extreme 
measure  of  knocking  his  blessed  head  off. 

This  was  a great  occasion.  But  our 
Vestry  shines  habitually.  In  asserting 
its  own  pre-eminence,  for  instance,  it  is 
very  strong.  On  the  least  provocation, 
or  on  none,  it  will  be  clamorous  to  know 
whether  it  is  to  be  “dictated  to,”  or 
“ trampled  on,”  or  “ ridden  over  rough- 
shod.” Its  great  watchword  is  Self- 
government.  That  is  to  say,  supposing 
our  Vestry  to  favor  any  little  harmless 
disorder  like  Typhus  Fever,  and  sup- 
posing the  government  of  the  country 
to  be,  by  any  accident,  in  such  ridicu- 
lous hands  as  that  any  of  its  authorities 
should  consider  it  a duty  to  object  to 
Tpyhus  Ftever,  — obviously  an  unconsti- 
tutional objection, — then  our  Vestry 
cuts  in  with  a terrible  manifesto  about 
Self-government,  and  claims  its  inde- 
pendent right  to  have  as  much  Typhus 
Fever  as  pleases  itself.  Some  absurd 
and  dangerous  persons  have  represented, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  though  our 
Vestry  may  be  able  to  “beat  the  bounds” 
of  its  own  parish,  it  may  not  be  able  to 
beat  the  bounds  of  its  own  diseases ; 
which  (say  they)  spread  over  the  whole 
land,  in  an  ever-expanding  circle  of 
waste,  and  misery,  and  death,  and 
widowhood,  and  orphanage,  and  deso- 
lation. But  our  Vestry  makes  short 
work  of  any  such  fellows  as  these. 

It  was  our  Vestry  — pink  of  Vestries 
as  it  is  — that  in  support  of  its  favorite 
principle  took  the  celebrated  ground  of 
denying  the  existence  of  the  last  pesti- 
lence that  raged  in  England,  when  the 
pestilence  was  raging  at* the  Vestry 
doors.  Dogginson  said  it  was  plums ; 
Mr.  Wigsby  (of  Chumbledon  Square) 
said  it  was  oysters ; Mr.  Magg  (of  Lit- 
tle Winkling  Street)  said,  amid  great 
cheering,  it  was  the  newspapers.  The 
noble  indignation  of  our  Vestry  with 
that  un-English  institution  the  Board 
of  Health,  under  those  circumstances, 
yields  one  of  the  finest  passages  in  its 
history.  It  would  n’t  hear  of  rescue. 
Like  Mr.  Joseph  Miller’s  Frenchman, 
it  would  be  drowned  and  nobody  should 
save  it.  Transported  beyond  grammar 
by  its  kindled  ire,  it  spoke  in  unknown 
tongues,  and  vented  unintelligible  bel- 


lowings,  more  like  an  ancient  oracle 
than  the  modern  oracle  it  is  admitted 
on  all  hands  to  be.  Rare  exigencies 
produce  rare  things ; and  even  our 
Vestry,  new  hatched  to  the  woful  time, 
came  forth  a greater  goose  than  ever. 

But  this,  again,  was  a special  occa- 
sion. Our  Vestry,  at  more  ordinary 
periods,  demands  its  meed  of  praise. 

Our  Vestry  is  eminently  parliamen- 
tary. Playing  at  Parliament  is  its  favor- 
ite game.  It  is  even  regarded  by  some 
of  its  members  as  a chapel  of  ease  to 
the  House  of  Commons ; a Little  Go  to 
be  passed  first.  It  has  its  strangers’  gal- 
lery, and  its  reported  debates  (see  the 
Sunday  paper  before  mentioned),  and 
our  Vestrymen  are  in  and  out  of  order, 
and  on  and  off  their  legs,  and  above  all 
are  transcendently  quarrelsome,  after 
the  pattern  of  the  real  original. 

Our  Vestry  being  assembled,  Mr. 
Magg  never  begs  to  trouble  Mr.  Wigs- 
by with  a simple  inquiry.  He  knows 
better  than  that.  Seeing  the  honorable 
gentleman,  associated  in  their  minds 
with  Chumbledon  Square,  in  his  place, 
he  wishes  to  ask  that  honorable  gentle- 
man what  the  intentions  of  himself,  and 
those  with  whom  he  acts,  may  be,  on 
the  subject  of  the  paving  of  the  district 
known  as  Piggleum  Buildings  ? Mr. 
Wigsby  replies  (with  his  eye  on  next 
Sunday’s  paper),  that  in  reference  to 
the  question  which  has  been  put  to  him 
by  the  honorable  gentleman  opposite, 
he  must  take  leave  to  say,  that  if  that 
honorable  gentleman  had  had  the  cour- 
tesy to  give  him  notice  of  that  question, 
he  (Mr.  Wigsby)  would  have  consulted 
with  his  colleagues  in  reference  to  the 
advisability,  in  the  present  state  of  the 
discussions  on  the  new  paving-rate,  of 
answering  that  question.  But  as  the 
honorable  gentleman  has  not  had  the 
courtesy  to  give  him  notice  of  that  ques- 
tion (great  cheering  from  the  Wigsby 
interest),  he  must  decline  to  give  the 
honorable  gentleman  the  satisfaction 
he  requires.  Mr.  Magg,  instantly  rising 
to  retort,  is  received  with  loud  cries  of 
“ Spoke  ! ” from  the  Wigsby  interest, 
and  with  cheers  from  the  Magg  side  of 
the  house.  Moreover,  five,  gentlemen 
rise  to  order,  and  one  of  them,  in  re- 
venge for  being  taken  no  notice  of,  pet- 


453 


OUR  VESTRY. 


rifles  the  assembly  by  moving  that  this 
Vestry  do  now  adjourn  ; but  is  persuad- 
ed to  withdraw  that  awful  proposal,  in 
consideration  of  its  tremendous  conse- 
quences if  persevered  in.  Mr.  Magg, 
for  the  purpose  of  being  heard,  then 
begs  to  move,  that  you,  sir,  do  now 
pass  to  the  order  of  the  day ; and  takes 
that  opportunity  of  saying,  that  if  an 
honorable  gentleman  whom  he  has  in 
his  eye,  and  will  not  demean  himself  by 
more  particularly  naming  (oh  ! oh  ! and 
cheers),  supposes  that  he  is  to  be  put 
down  by  clamor,  that  honorable  gentle- 
man, — however  supported  he  may  be, 
through  thick  and  thin,  by  a Fellow- 
Parishioner,  with  whom  he  is  well  ac- 
quainted (cheers  and  counter-cheers,  Mr. 
Magg  being  invariably  backed  by  the 
Rate-Payer),  will  find  himself  mistaken. 
Upon  this,  twenty  members  of  our  Ves- 
try speak  in  succession  concerning  what 
the  two  great  men  have  meant,  until  it 
appears,  after  an  hour  and  twenty  min- 
utes, that  neither  of  them  meant  any- 
thing. Then  our  Vestry  begins  business. 

We  have  said  that,  after  the  pattern 
of  the  real  original,  our  Vestry  in  play- 
ing at  Parliament  is  transcendently 
quarrelsome.  It  enjoys  a personal  al- 
tercation above  all  things.  Perhaps  the 
most  redoubtable  case  of  this  kind  we 
have  ever  had  — though  we  had  so 
many  that  it  is  difficult  to  decide  — was 
that  on  which  the  last  extreme  solemni- 
ties passed  between  Mr.  Tiddypot  (of 
Gumtion  House)  and  Captain  Banger 
(of  Wilderness  Walk). 

In  an  adjourned  debate  on  the  ques- 
tion whether  water  could  be  regarded  in 
the  light  of  a necessary  of  life,  respect- 
ing which  there  were  great  differences  of 
opinion,  and  many  shades  of  sentiment, 
Mr.  Tiddypot,  in  a powerful  burst  of 
eloquence  against  that  hypothesis,  fre- 
quently made  use  of  the  expression  that 
such  and  such  a rumor  had  “reached 
his  ears.”  Captain  Banger,  following 
him,  and  holding  that,  for  purposes  of 
ablution  and  refreshment,  a pint  of  wa- 
ter per  diem  was  necessary  for  every 
adult  of  the  lower  classes,  and  half  a 
pint  for  every  child,  cast  ridicule  upon 
his  address  in  a sparkling  speech,  and 
concluded  by  saying  that,  instead  of 
those  rumors  having  reached  the  ears 


of  the  honorable  gentleman,  he  rather 
thought  the  honorable  gentleman’s  ears 
must  have  reached  the  rumors,  in  con- 
sequence of  their  well-known  length. 
Mr.  Tiddypot  immediately  rose,  looked 
the  honorable  and  gallant  gentleman 
full  in  the  face,  and  left  the  Vestry. 

The  excitement,  at  this  moment  pain- 
fully intense,  was  heightened  to  an 
acute  degree  when  Captain  Banger  rose, 
and  also  left  the  Vestry.  After  a few 
moments  of  profound  silence  — one  of 
these  breathless  pauses  never  to  be  for- 
gotten— Mr.  Chib  (of  Tucket’s  Ter- 
race, and  the  father  of  the  Vestry)  rose. 
He  said  that  words  and  looks  had 
passed  in  that  assembly,  replete  with 
consequences  which  every  feeling  mind 
must  deplore.  Time  pressed.  The 
sword  was  drawn,  and  while  he  spoke 
the  scabbard  might  be  thrown  away. 
He  moved  that  those  honorable  gentle- 
men who  had  left  the  Vestry  be  recalled, 
and  required  to  pledge  themselves  up- 
on their  honor  that  this  affair  should 
go  no  further.  The  motion  being  by 
a general  union  of  parties  unanimously 
agreed  to  (-for  everybody  wanted  to  have 
the  belligerents  there,  instead  of  out  of 
sight,  which  was  no  fun  at  all),  Mr. 
Magg  was  deputed  to  recover  Captain 
Banger,  and  Mr.  Chib  himself  to  go  in 
search  of  Mr.  Tiddypot.  The  Captain 
was  found  in  a conspicuous  position, 
surveying  the  passing  omnibuses  from 
the  top  step  of  the  front  door  immedi- 
ately adjoining  the  beadle’s  box  ; Mr. 
Tiddypot  made  a desperate  attempt  at 
resistance,  but  was  overpowered  by  Mr. 
Chib  (a  remarkably  hale  old  gentleman 
of  eighty-t\*)),  and  brought  back  in 
safety. 

Mr.  Tiddypot  and  the  Captain  being 
restored  to  their  places,  and  glaring  on 
each  other,  were  called  upon  by  the 
chair  to  abandon  all  homicidal  inten- 
tions, and  give  the  Vestry  an  assurance 
that  they  did  so.  Mr.  Tiddypot  re- 
mained profoundly  silent.  The  Cap- 
tain likewise  remained  profoundly  si- 
lent, saving  that  he  was  observed  by 
those  around  him  to  fold  his  arms  like 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,  and  to  snort  in 
his  breathing,  — actions  but  too  expres- 
sive of  gunpowder. 

The  most  intense  emotion  now  pre- 


OUR  VESTRY, . 


459 


vailed.  Several  members  clustered  in 
remonstrance  round  the  Captain,  and 
several  round  Mr.  Tiddypot ; but  both 
were  obdurate.  Mr.  Chib  then  pre- 
sented himself  amid  tremendous  cheer- 
ing, and  said,  that  not  to  shrink  from 
the  discharge  of  his  painful  duty,  he 
must  now  move  that  both  honorable 
gentlemen  be  taken  into  custody  by 
the  beadle,  and  conveyed  to  the  nearest 
police  office,  there  to  be  -held  to  bail. 
The  union  of  parties  still  continuing, 
the  motion  was  seconded  by  Mr.  Wigs- 
by,  — on  all  usual  occasions  Mr.  Chib’s 
opponent, — and  rapturously  carried  with 
only  one  dissentient  voice.  This  was 
Dogginson’s,  who  said  from  his  place, 
“ Let  ’em  fight  it  out  with  fistes  ” ; but 
whose  coarse  remark  was  received  as  it 
merited. 

The  beadle  now  advanced  along  the 
floor  of  the  Vestry,  and  beckoned  with 
his  cocked  hat  to  both  members. 
Every  breath  was  suspended.  To  say 
that  a pin  might  have  been  heard  to 
fall,  would  be  feebly  to  express  the  all- 
absorbing  interest  and  silence.  Sudden- 
ly enthusiastic  cheering  broke  out  from 
every  side  of  the  Vestry.  Captain  Bang- 
er had  risen,  — being,  in  fact,  pulled  up 
by  a friend  on  either  side,  and  poked  up 
by  a friend  behind. 

The  Captain  said,  in  a deep,  de- 
termined voice,  that  he  had  every  re- 
spect for  that  Vestry,  and  every  respect 
for  that  chair  ; that  he  also  respected 
the  honorable  gentleman  of  Gumtion 
House  ; but  that  he  respected  his  hon- 
or more.  Hereupon  the  Captain  sat 
down,  leaving  the  whole  Vestry  much 
affected.  Mr.  Tiddypot  instantly  rose, 
and  was  received  with  the  same  encour- 
agement. He  likew-ise  said,  — and  the 
exquisite  art  of  this  orator  communicated 
to  the  observation  an  air  of  freshness 
and  novelty,  — that  he  too  had  ever/re- 
spect  for  that  Vestry ; that  he  too  had 
every  respect  for  that  chair;  that  he 
too  respected  the  honorable  and  gallant 
gentleman  of  Wilderness  Walk  ; but 
that  he  too  respected  his  honor  more. 
“ Hows’ever,”  added  the  distinguished 
Vestryman,  “if  the  honorable  or  gal- 

•j 


lant  gentleman’s  honor  is  never  more 
doubted  and  damaged  than  it  is  by  me, 
he’s  all  right.”  Captain  Banger  im- 
mediately started  up  again,  and  said 
that,  after  those  observations,  involving 
as  they  did  ample  concession  to  his 
honor  without  compromising  the  honor 
of  the  honorable  gentleman,  he  would 
be  wanting  in  honor  as  well  as  in  gen- 
erosity, if  he  did  not  at  once  repudiate 
all  intention  of  wounding  the  honor  of 
the  honorable  gentleman,  or  saying  any- 
thing dishonorable  to  his  honorable  feel- 
ings. These  observations  were  repeat- 
edly interrupted  by  bursts  of  cheers. 
Mr.  Tiddypot  retorted  that  he  well 
knew  the  spirit  of  honor  by  which  the 
honorable  and  gallant  gentleman  was 
so  honorably  animated,  and  that  he  ac- 
cepted an  honorable  explanation,  of- 
fered in  a way  that  did  him  honor ; 
but  he  trusted  that  the  Vestry  would 
consider  that  his  (Mr.  Tiddypot’s)  hon- 
or had  imperatively  demanded  of  him 
that  painful  course  which  he  had  felt  it 
due  to  his  honor  to  adopt.  The  Cap- 
tain and  Mr.  Tiddypot  then  touched 
their  hats  to  one  another  across  the 
Vestry,  a great  many  times,  and  it  is 
thought  that  these  proceedings  (reported 
to  the  extent  of  several  columns  in  next 
Sunday’s  paper)  will  bring  them  in  as 
churchwardens  next  year. 

All  this  was  strictly  after  the  pattern 
of  the  real  original,  and  so  are  the  whole 
of  our  Vestry’s  proceedings.  In  all 
their  debates,  they  are  laudably  imita- 
tive of  the  windy  and  wordy  slang  of 
the  real  original,  and  of  nothing  that  is 
better  in  it.  They  have  headstrong 
party  animosities,  without  any  reference 
to  the  merits  of  questions ; they  tack  a 
surprising  amount  of  debate  to  a very 
little  business ; they  set  more  store  by 
forms  than  they  do  by  substances,  — 
all  very  like  the  real  original  ! It  has 
been  doubted  in  our  borough,  whether 
our  Vestry  is  of  any  utility ; but  our  own 
conclusion  is,  that  it  is  of  the  use  to  the 
Borough  that  a diminishing  mirror  is  to 
a Painter,  as  enabling  it  to  perceive  in 
a small  focus  of  absurdity  all  the  sur- 
face defects  of  the  real  original. 


46o 


OUR  BORE. 


OUR 


It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  we  keep 
a bore.  Everybody  does.  But  the 
bore  whom  we  have  the  pleasure  and 
honor  of  enumerating  among  our  par- 
ticular friends  is  such  a generic  bore, 
and  has  so  many  traits  (as  it  appears  to 
us)  in  common  with  the  great  bore  fam- 
ily, that  we  are  tempted  to  make  him 
the  subject  of  the  present  notes.  May 
he  be  generally  accepted  ! 

Our  bore  is  admitted  on  all  hands  to 
be  a good-hearted  man.  He  may  put 
fifty  people  out  of  temper,  but  he  keeps 
his  own.  He  preserves  a sickly  solid 
smile  upon  his  face  when  other  faces 
are  ruffled  by  the  perfection  he  has 
attained  in  his  art,  and  has  an  equable 
voice  which  never  travels  out  of  one 
key  or  rises  above  one  pitch.  His  man- 
ner is  a manner  of  tranquil  interest. 
None  of  his  opinions  are  startling. 
Among  his  deepest-rooted  convictions, 
it  may  be  mentioned  that  he  considers 
the  air  of  England  damp,  and  holds 
that  our  lively  neighbors  — he  always 
calls  the  French  our  lively  neighbors  — 
have  the  advantage  of  us  in  that  par- 
ticular. Nevertheless,  he  is  unable  to 
forget  that  John  Bull  is  John  Bull  all 
the  world  over,  and  that  England  with 
all  her  faults  is  England  still. 

Our  bore  has  travelled.  He  could 
not  possibly  be  a complete  bore  with- 
out having  travelled.  He  rarely  speaks 
of  his  travels  without  introducing,  some- 
times on  his  own  plan  of  construction, 
morsels  of  the  language  of  the  country, 
— which  he  always  translates.  You  can- 
not name  to  him  any  little  remote  town 
in  France,  Italy,  Germany,  or  Switzer- 
land but  he  knows  it  well ; stayed  there 
a fortnight  under  peculiar  circumstan- 
ces. And  talking*  of  that  little  place, 
perhaps  you  know  a statue  over  an  old 
fountain,  up  a little  court,  which  is  the 
second — no,  the  third  — stay — yes,  the 
third  turning  on  the  right,  after  you 
come  out  of  the  Post-house,  going  up 


BORE. 


the  hill  towards  the  market  ? You  don't 
know  that  statue ? Nor  that  fountain? 
You  surprise-  him  ! They  are  not  usu- 
ally seen  by  travellers  (most  extraordi- 
nary, he  has  never  yet  met  with  a single 
traveller  who  knew  them,  except  one 
German,  the  most  intelligent  man  he 
ever  met  in  his  life  !)  but  he  thought 
that  you  would  have  been  the  man  to 
find  them  out.  And  then  he  describes 
them  in  a circumstantial  lecture  half  an 
hour  long,  generally  delivered  behind  a 
door  which  is  constantly  being  opened 
from  the  other  side  ; and  implores  you, 
if  you  ever  revisit  that  place,  now  do  go 
and  look  at  that  statue  and  fountain  ! 

Our  bore,  in  a similar  manner,  being 
in  Italy,  made  a discovery  of  a dreadful 
picture,  which  has  been  the  terror  of  a 
large  portion  of  the  civilized  world  ever 
since.  We  have  seen  the  liveliest  men 
paralyzed  by  it,  across  a broad  dinTng- 
table.  He  was  lounging  among  the 
mountains,  sir,  basking  in  the  mellow 
influences  of  the  climate,  when  he  came 
to  una  piccolo,  chiesa  — a little  church 

— or  perhaps  it  would  be  more  correct 
to  say  una  piccolissima  cappella  — the 
smallest  chapel  you  can  possibly  imagine 

— and  walked  in.  There  was  nobody  in- 
side but  a cieco  — a blind  man  — saying 
his  prayers,  and  a vecchio  padre  — 
old  friar  — rattling  a money-box.  But 
above  the  head  of  that  friar,  and  imme- 
diately to  the  right  of  the  altar  as  you 
enter  — to  the  right  of  the  altar?  No. 
To  the  left  of  the  altar  as  you  enter  — 
or  Say  near  the  centre  — there  hung  a 
painting  (subject,  Virgin  and  Child)  so 
divine  in  its  expression,  so  pure  and 
yet  so  warm  and  rich  in  its  tone,  so 
fresh  in  its  touch,  at  once  so  glowing  in 
its  color  and  so  statuesque  in  its  repose, 
that  our  bore  cried  out  in  an  ecstasy, 
“That’s  the  finest  picture  in  Italy!” 
And  so  it  is,  sir.  There  is  no  doubt  of 
it.  It  is  astonishing  that  that  picture  is 
so  little  known.  Even  the  painter  is 


THE  U6HABY 
OF  THE 

UMVEBSfTY  Or  ILU80IS 


OUR  BORE. 


OUR  BORE. 


461 


uncertain.  He  afterwards  took  Blumb, 
of  the  Royal  Academy  (it  is  to  be  ob- 
served that  our  bore  takes  none  but 
eminent  people  to  see  sights,  and  that 
none  but  eminent  people  take  our  bore), 
and  you  never  saw  a man  so  affected  in 
your  life  as  Blumb  was.  He  cried  like 
a child  ! And  then  our  bore  begins  his 
description  in  detail  — for  all  this  is 
introductory  — and  strangles  his  hearers 
with  the  folds  of  the  purple  drapery. 

By  an  equally  fortunate  conjunction  of 
accidental  circumstances,  it  happened 
that  when  our  bore  was  in  Switzerland, 
he  discovered  a valley  of  that  superb 
character  that  Chamouni  is  not  to  be 
mentioned  in  the  same  breath  with  it. 
This  is  how  it  was,  sir.  He  was  travel- 
ling on  a mule  — had  been  in  the  sad- 
dle some  days  — when,  as  he  and  the 
uide,  Pierre  Blanquo,  whom  you  may 
now,  perhaps  ? — our  bore  is  sorry  you 
don’t,  because  he  is  the  only  guide  de- 
serving of  the  name  — as  he  and  Pierre 
were  descending,  towards  evening, 
among  those  everlasting  snows,  to  the 
little  village  of  La  Croix,  our  bore  ob- 
served a mountain  track  turning  off 
sharply  to  the  right.  At  first  he  was 
uncertain  whether  it  was  a track  at  all, 
and,  in  fact,  he  said  to  Pierre,  “ Qu'est 
que  c'est  done , mon  ami ? — What  is 
that,  my  friend?”  “ Ou,  monsieur  ?” 
said  Pierre,  — “ Where,  sir ? ” “ La!  — 
There  ! ” said  our  bore.  “ Monsieur , 
ce  riest  rien  de  tout,  — Sir,  it ’s  nothing 
at  all,”  said  Pierre,  “ A lions  l — Make 
haste.  II  va  neiger,  — it ’s  going  to 
snow !”  But  our  bore  was  not  to  be 
done  in  that  way,  and  he  firmly  replied, 
“ I wish  to  go  in  that  direction,  — je 
veux  y aller.  I am  bent  upon  it,  — je 
suis  determine.  En  avant  ! — go 
ahead  ! ” In  consequence  of  which 
firmness  on  our  bore’s  part,  they  pro- 
ceeded, sir,  during  two  hours  of  even- 
ing, and  three  of  moonlight  (they  waited 
in  a cavern  till  the  moon  was  up),  along 
the  slenderest  track,  overhanging  per- 
pendicularly the  most  awful  gulfs,  until 
they  arrived,  by  a winding  descent,  in  a 
valley  that  possibly,  and  he  may  say 
probably,  was  never  visited  by  any 
stranger  before.  What  a valley!  Moun- 
tains piled  on  mountains,  avalanches 
stemmed  by  pine  forests ; waterfalls, 


chalets,  mountain  - torrents,  wooden 
bridges,  every  conceivable  picture  of 
Swiss  scenery ! The  whole  village 
turned  out  to  receive  our  bore.  The 
easant-girls  kissed  him,  the  men  shook 
ands  with  him,  one  old  lady  of  benevo- 
lent appearance  wept  upon  his  breast. 
He  was  conducted,  in  a primitive  tri- 
umph, to  the  little  inn,  where  he  was 
taken  ill  next  morning,  and  lay  for  six 
weeks,  attended  by  the  amiable  hostess 
(the  same  benevolent  old  lady  who 
had  wept  overnight)  and  her  charming 
daughter,  Fanchette.  It  is  nothing  to 
say  that  they  were  attentive  to  him ; 
they  doted  on  him.  They  called  him, 
in  their  simple  way,  VA  nge  A nglais , — 
the  English  Angel.  When  our  bore 
left  the  valley,  there  was  not  a dry  eye 
in  the  place ; some  of  the  people  at- 
tended him  for  miles.  He  begs  and 
entreats  of  you  as  a personal  favor,  that 
if  you  ever  go  to  Switzerland  again  (you 
have  mentioned  that  your  last  visit  was 
your  twenty-third),  you  will  go  to  that 
valley,  and  see  Swiss  scenery  for  the 
first  time.  And  if  you  want  really  to  know 
the  pastoral  people  of  Switzerland,  and 
to  understand  them,  mention,  in  that 
valley,  our  bore’s  name  ! 

Our  bore  has  a crushing  brother  in 
the  East,  who,  somehow  or  other,  was 
admitted  to  smoke  pipes  with  Mehemet 
Ali,  and  instantly  became  an  authority 
on  the  whole  range  of  Eastern  matters, 
from  Haroun  Alraschid  to  the  present 
Sultan.  He  is  in  the  habit  of  express- 
ing mysterious  opinions  on  this  wid$ 
range  of  subjects,  but  on  questions  ot 
foreign  policy  more  particularly,  to  our 
bore,  in  letters  ; and  our  bore  is  continu- 
ally sending  bits  of  these  letters  to  the 
newspapers  (which  they  neverinsert),  and 
carrying  other  bits  about  in  his  pocket- 
book.  It  is  even  whispered  that  he  has 
been  seen  at  the  F oreign  Office,  receiving 
great  consideration  from  the  messengers, 
and  having  his  card  promptly  borne  into 
the  sanctuary  of  the  temple.  The  havoc 
committed  in  society  by  this  Eastern 
brother  is  beyond  belief.  Our  bore  is  al- 
ways ready  with  him.  We  have  known 
our  bore  to  fall  upon  an  intelligent  young 
sojourner  in  the  wildnerness,  in  the  first 
sentence  of  a narrative,  and  beat  all 
confidence  out  of  him  with  one  blow  of 


462 


OUR  BORE. 


his  brother.  He  became  omniscient,  as 
to  foreign  policy,  in  the  smoking  of 
those  pipes  with  Mehemet  Ali.  The 
balance  of  power  in  Europe,  the  machi- 
nations of  the  Jesuits,  the  gentle  and 
humanizing  influence  of  Austria,  the 
position  and  prospects  of  that  hero  of 
the  noble  soul  who  is  worshipped  by 
happy  France,  are  all  easy  reading  to 
our  bore’s  brother.  And  our  bore  is 
so  provokingly  self-denying  about  him  ! 
u I don’t  pretend  to  more  than  a very 
general  knowledge  of  these  subjects 
myself,”  says  he,  after  enervating  the 
intellects  of  several  strong  men,  “but 
these  are  my  brother’s  opinions,  and 
I believe  he  is  known  to  be  well 
informed.” 

The  commonest  incidents  and  places 
would  appear  to  have  been  made 
special,  expressly  for  our  bore.  Ask 
him  whether  he  ever  chanced  to  walk, 
between  seven  and  eight  in  the  morning, 
down  St.  James’s  Street,  London,  and 
he  will  tell  you,  never  in  his  life  but 
once.  But  it’s  curious  that  that  once 
was  in  eighteen  thirty  ; and  that  as  our 
bore  was  walking  down  the  street  you 
have  just  mentioned,  at  the  hour  you 
have  just  mentioned  — half  past  seven 
— or  twenty  minutes  to  eight.  No! 
Let  him  be  correct ! — exactly  a quarter 
before  eight  by  the  Palace  clock,  — he 
met  a fresh-colored,  gray-haired,  good- 
humored-looking  gentleman,  with  a 
brown  umbrella,  who,  as  he  passed  him, 
touched  his  hat  and  said,  “ Fine  morn- 
ing, sir,  fine  morning  ! ” — William  the 
Fourth  ! 

Ask  our  bore  whether  he  has  seen 
Mr.  Barry’s  new  Houses  of  Parliament, 
and  he  will  reply  that  he  has  not  yet 
inspected  them  minutely,  but  that  you 
remind  him  that  it  was  his  singular  for- 
tune to  be  the  last  man  to  see  the  old 
Houses  of  Parliament  before  the  fire 
broke  out.  It  happened  in  this  way. 
Poor  John  Spine,  the  celebrated  nov- 
elist, had  taken  him  over  to  South 
Lambeth  to  read  to  him  the  last  few 
chapters  of  what  was  certainly  his  best 
book,  — as  our  bore  told  him  at  the  time, 
adding,  “ Now,  my  dear  John,  touch  it, 
and  you’ll  spoil  it  ! ” — and  our  bore 
was  going  back  to  the  club  by  way  of 
Millbank  and  Parliament  Street,  when 


he  stopped  to  think  of  Canning,  and 
look  at  the  Houses  of  Parliament. 
Now,  you  know  far  more  of  the  philos- 
ophy of  Mind  than  our  bore  does,  and 
are  much  better  able  to  explain  to  him 
than  he  is  to  explain  to  you  why  or 
wherefore,  at  that  particular  time,  the 
thought  of  fire  should  come  into  his 
head.  But  it  did.  It  did.  He  thought, 
“ What  a national  calamity  if  an  edifice 
connected  with  so  many  associations 
should  be  consumed  by  fire  ! ” At  that 
time  there  was  not  a single  soul  in  the 
street  but  himself.  All  was  quiet,  dark, 
and  solitary.  After  contemplating  the 
building  for  a minute  — or,  say  a min- 
ute and  a half,  not  more  — our  bore 
proceeded  on  his  way,  mechanically  re- 
peating, “ What  a national  calamity  if 
such  an  edifice,  connected  with  such 
associations,  should  be  destroyed  by  — ” 
A man  coming  towards  him  in  a violent 
state  of  agitation  completed  the  sen- 
tence with  the  exclamation,  “Fire!” 
Our  bore  looked  round,  and  the  whole 
structure  was  in  a blaze. 

In  harmony  and  union  with  these 
experiences,  our  bore  never  went  any- 
where in  a steamboat  but  he  made 
either  the  best  or  the  worst  voyage  ever 
know-n  on  that  station.  Either  he  over- 
heard the  captain  say  to  himself,  with 
his  hands  clasped,  “ We  are  all  lost ! ” 
or  the  captain  openly  declared  to  him 
that  he  had  never  made  such  a run  be- 
fore, and  never  should  be  able  to  do  it 
again.  Our  bore  was  in  that  express- 
train  on  that  railway,  when  they  made 
(unknown  to  the  passengers)  the  exper- 
iment of  going  at  the  rate  of  a hundred 
miles  an  hour.  Our  bore  remarked  on 
that  occasion  to  the  other  people  in  the 
carriage,  “This  is  too  fast,  but  sit  still ! ” 
He  was  at  the  Norwich  musical  festival 
when  the  extraordinary  echo  for  which 
science  has  been  wholly  unable  to  ac- 
count w^as  heard  for  the  first  and  last 
time.  He  and  the  bishop  heard  it  at 
the  same  moment,  and  caught  each 
other’s  eye.  He  was  present  at  that 
illumination  of  St.  Peter’s  of  which 
the  Pope  is  knowm  to  have  remarked, 
as  he  looked  at  it  out  of  his  window  in 
the  Vatican,  “ O Cielo  ! Questa  cosa 
non  sara  fatta , mai  ancora,  come 
questa,  — O Heaven  ! this  thing  will 


OUR  BORE. 


463 


never  be  done  again,  like  this  ! ” He 
has  seen  every  lion  he  ever  saw,  under 
some  remarkably  propitious  circumstan- 
ces. He  knows  there  is  no  fancy  in 
it,  because  in  every  case  the  showman 
mentioned  the  fact  at  the  time,  and  con- 
gratulated him  upon  it. 

At  one  period  of  his  life,  our  bore  had 
an  illness.  It  was  an  illness  of  a dan- 
gerous character  for  society  at  large. 
Innocently  remark  that  you  are  very 
well,  or  that  somebody  else  is  very  well ; 
and  our  bore,  with  a preface  that  one 
never  knows  what  a blessing  health  is 
until  one  has  lost  it,  is  reminded  of 
that  illness,  and  drags  you  through  the 
whole  of  its  symptoms,  progress,  and 
treatment.  Innocently  remark  that  you 
are  not  well,  or  that  somebody  else  is 
not  well,  ana  the  same  inevitable  result 
ensues.  You  will  learn  how  our  bore 
felt  a tightness  about  here,  sir,  for  which 
he  could  n’t  account,  accompanied  with 
a constant  sensation  as  if  he  were  be- 
ing stabbed  — or,  rather,  jobbed,  that 
expresses  it  more  correctly — jobbed  — 
with  a blunt  knife.  Well,  sir!  This 
went  on,  until  sparks  began  to  flit  be- 
fore his  eyes,  water-wheels  to  turn  round 
in  his  head,  and  hammers  to  beat  in- 
cessantly, thump,  thump,  thump,  all 
down  his  back,  — along  the  whole  of  the 
spinal  vertebrae.  Our  bore,  when  his 
sensations  had  come  to  this,  thought  it 
a duty  he  owed  to  himself  to  take  ad- 
vice, and  he  said,  Now,  whom  shall  I 
consult?  He  naturally  thought  of  Cal- 
low, at  that  time  one  of  the  most  emi- 
nent physicians  in  London,  and  he  went 
to  Callow.  Callow  said,  ‘‘Liver!  ” and 
prescribed  rhubarb  and  calomel,  low 
diet,  and  moderate  exercise.  Our  bore 
went  on  with  this  treatment,  getting 
worse  every  day,  until  he  lost  confidence 
in  Callow,  and  went  to  Moon,  whom 
half  the  town  was  then  mad  about. 
Moon  was  interested  in  the  case ; to  do 
him  justice,  he  was  very  much  interested 
in  the  case  ; and  he  said,  “ Kidneys  ! ” 
He  altered  the  whole  treatment,  sir,  . — 
gave  strong  acids,  cupped,  and  blis- 
tered. This  went  on,  our  bore  still 
getting  worse  every  day,  until  he  openly 
told  Moon  it  would  be  a satisfaction  to 
him  if  he  would  have  a consultation 
with  Clatter.  The  moment  Clatter  saw 


our  bore,  he  said,  “Accumulation  of 
fat  about  the  heart  ! ’’  Snugglewood, 
who  was  called  in  with  him,  differed, 
and  said,  “ Brain  ! ” But  what  they 
all  agreed  upon  was,  to  lay  our  bore 
upon  his  back,  to  shave  his  head,  to 
leech  him,  to  administer  enormous  quan- 
tities of  medicine,  and  to  keep  him  low  ; 
so  that  he  was  reduced  to  a mere  shad- 
ow, you  wouldn’t  have  known  him,  and 
nobody  considered  it  possible  that  he 
could  ever  recover.  This  was  his  con- 
dition, sir,  when  he  heard  of  Jilkins,  — 
at  that  period  in  a very  small  practice, 
and  living  in  the  upper  part  of  a house 
in  Great  Portland  Street ; but  still,  you 
understand,  with  a rising  reputation 
among  the  few  people  to  whom  he  was 
known.  Being  in  that  condition  in 
which  a drowning  man  catches  at  a 
straw,  our  bore  sent  for  Jilkins.  Jilkins 
came.  Our  bore  liked  his  eye,  and 
said,  “ Mr.  Jilkins,  I have  a presenti- 
ment that  you  will  do  me  good.”  Jil- 
kins’s  reply  was  characteristic  of  the 
man.  It  was,  “ Sir,  I mean  to  do  you 
good.”  This  confirmed  our  bore’s  opin- 
ion of  his  eye,  and  they  went  into  the 
case  together,  — went  completely  into  it. 
Jilkins  then  got  up,  walked  across  the 
room,  came  back,  and  sat  down.  His 
words  were  these.  “You  have  been 
humbugged.  This  is  a case  of  indiges- 
tion, occasioned  by  deficiency  of  power 
in  the  Stomach.  Take  a mutton-chop 
in  half  an  hour,  with  a glass  of  the  fin- 
est old  sherry  that  can  be  got  for  mon- 
ey. Take  two  mutton-chops  to-mor- 
row, and  two  glasses  of  the  finest  old 
sherry.  Next  day,  I ’ll  come  again.” 
In  a week  our  bore  was  on  his  legs, 
and  Jilkins’s  success  dates  from  that 
period  ! 

Our  bore  is  great  in  secret  information. 
He  happens  to  know  many  things  that 
nobody  else  knows.  He  can  generally 
tell  you  where  the  split  is  in  the  Minis- 
try ; he  knows  a deal  about  the  Queen  ; 
and  has  little  anecdotes  to  relate  of  the 
royal  nursery.  H e gives  you  the  j udge  ’ s 
private  opinion  of  Sludge,  the  murderer, 
and  his  thoughts  when  he  tried  him. 
He  happens  to  know  what  such  a man 
got  by  such  a transaction,  and  it  was 
fifteen  thousand  five  hundred  pounds, 
and  his  income  is  twelve  thousand  a 


464 


A MONUMENT  OF  FRENCH  FOLLY. 


year.  Our  bore  is  also  great  in  mystery. 
He  believes,  with  an  exasperated  ap- 
pearance of  profound  meaning,  that  you 
saw  Parkins  last  Sunday? — Yes,  you 
did. — Did  he  say  anything  particular? 

— No,  nothing  particular. — Our  bore 
is  surprised  at  that.  — Why  ? — Nothing. 
Only  he  understood  that  Parkins  had 
come  to  tell  you  something.  — What 
about? — Well!  our  bore  is  not  at 
liberty  to  mention  what  about.  But 
he  believes  you  will  hear  that  from 
Parkins  himself  soon,  and  he  hopes  it 
may  not  surprise  you  as  it  did  him. 
Perhaps,  however,  you  never  heard 
about  Parkins’s  wife’s  sister? — No. 

— Ah ! says  our  bore,  that  explains 
it ! 

Our  bore  is  also  great  in  argument. 
He  infinitely  enjoys  a long,  humdrum, 
drowsy  interchange  of  words  of  dispute 
about  nothing.  He  considers  that  it 
strengthens  the  mind  ; consequently,  he 
“don’t  see  that,”  very  often.  Or,  he 
would  be  glad  to  know  what  you  mean 
by  that.  Or,  he  doubts  that.  Or,  he 
has  always  understood  exactly  the 
reverse  of  that.  Or,  he  can’t  admit 
that.  Or,  he  begs  to  deny  that.  Or, 
surely  you  don’t  mean  that.  And  so 
on.  He  once  advised  us ; offered  us  a 


piece  of  advice,  after  the  fact,  totally 
impracticable  and  wholly  impossible  of 
acceptance,  because  it  supposed  the 
fact,  then  eternally  disposed  of,  to  be 
yet  in  abeyance.  It  was  a dozen  years 
ago,  and  to  this  hour  our  bore  benevo- 
lently wishes,  in  a mild  voice,  on  certain 
regular  occasions,  that  we  had  thought 
better  of  his  opinion. 

The  instinct  with  which  our  bore 
finds  out  another  bore,  and  closes  with 
him,  is  amazing.  We  have  seen  him 
pick  his  man  out  of  fifty  men,  in  a 
couple  of  minutes.  They  love  to  go 
(which  they  do  naturally)  into  a slow 
argument  on  a previously  exhausted 
subject,  and  to  contradict  each  other, 
and  to  wear  the  hearers  out,  without 
impairing  their  own  perennial  freshness 
as  bores.  It  improves  the  good  under- 
standing between  them,  and  they  get 
together  afterwards,  and  bore  each  other 
amicably.  Whenever  we  see  our  bore 
behind  a door  with  another  bore,  we 
know  that  when  he  comes  forth,  he  will 
praise  the  other  bore  as  one  of  the  most 
intelligent  men  he  ever  met.  And  this 
bringing  us  to  the  close  of  what  we  had 
to  say  about  our  bore,  we  are  anxious 
to  have  it  understood  that  he  never 
bestowed  this  praise  on  us. 


A MONUMENT  OF  FRENCH  FOLLY. 


It  was  profoundly  observed  by  a 
witty  member  of  the  Court  of  Common 
Council,  in  Council  assembled  in  the 
City  of  London,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  fifty, 
that  the  French  are  a frog-eating  peo- 
ple, who  wear  wooden  shoes. 

We  are  credibly  informed,  in  refer- 
ence to  the  nation  whom  this  choice 
spirit  so  happily  disposed  of,  that  the 
creatures  and  stage  representations 
which  were  current  in  England  some 
half  a century  ago  exactly  depict  their 
present  condition.  For  example,  we  un- 


derstand that  every  Frenchman,  without 
exception,  wears  a pigtail  and  curl-pa- 
pers. That  he  is  extremely  sallow,  thin, 
long-faced,  and  lantern-jawed.  That 
the  calves  of  his  legs  are  invariably  un- 
developed ; that  his  legs  fail  at  the 
knees,  and  that  his  shoulders  are  always 
higher  than  his  ears.  We  are  likewise 
assured  that  he  rarely  tastes  any  food 
but  soup  maigre,  and  an  onion  ; that  he 
always  says,  “ By  Gar  ! Aha  ! Vat  you 
tell  me,  sa^e  ? ” at  the  end  of  every  sen- 
tence he  utters  ; and  that  the  true  ge- 
neric name  of  his  race  is  the  Mounseers, 


A MONUMENT  OF  FRENCH  FOLLY. 


465 


or  the  Parly-voos.  If  he  be  not  a dan- 
cing-master or  a barber,  he  must  be  a 
cook  ; since  no  other  trades  but  those 
three  are  congenial  to  the  tastes  of  the 
people,  or  permitted  by  the  institutions 
of  the  country.  He  is  a slave,  of  course. 
The  ladies  of  France  (who  are  also 
slaves)  invariably  have  their  heads  tied 
up  in  Belcher  handkerchiefs,  wear  long 
ear-rings,  carry  tambourines,  and  be- 
guile the  weariness  of  their  yoke  by 
singing  in  head  voices  through  their 
noses,  — principally  to  barrel-organs. 

It  may  be  generally  summed  up,  of 
this  inferior  people,  that  they  have  no 
idea  of  anything. 

Of  a great  institution  like  Smithfield 
they  are  unable  to  form  the  least  con- 
ception. A Beast  Market  in  the  heart 
of  Paris  would  be  regarded  an  impossi- 
ble nuisance.  Nor  have  they  any  no- 
tion of  slaughter-houses  in  the  midst  of 
a city.  One  of  these  benighted  frog- 
eaters  would  scarcely  understand  your 
meaning,  if  you  told  him  of  the  exist- 
ence of  such  a British  bulwark. 

It  is  agreeable,  and  perhaps  pardon- 
able, to  indulge  in  a little  self-compla- 
cency when  our  right  to  it  is  thorough- 
ly established.  At  the  present  time,  to 
be  rendered  memorable  by  a final  attack 
on  that  good  old  market  which  is  the 
(rotten)  apple  of  the  Corporation’s  eye, 
let  us  compare  ourselves,  to  our  nation- 
al delight  and  pride  as  to  these  two 
subjects  of  slaughter-house  and  beast- 
market,  with  the  outlandish  foreigner. 

The  blessings  of  Smithfield  are  too 
well  understood  to  need  recapitulation  ; 
all  who  run  ^away  from  mad  bulls  and 
pursuing  oxen)  may  read.  Any  market- 
day  they  may  be  beheld  in  glorious 
action.  Possibly  the  merits  of  our 
slaughter-houses  are  not  yet  quite  so 
generally  appreciated. 

Slaughter-houses,  in  the  large  towns 
of  England,  are  always  (with  the  excep- 
tion of  one  or  two  enterprising  towns) 
most  numerous  in  the  most  densely 
crowded  places,  where  there  is  the  least 
circulation  of  air.  They  are  often  un- 
derground. in  cellars  ; they  are  some- 
times in  close  back  yards ; sometimes 
(as  in  Spitalfields)  in  the  very  shops 
where  the  meat  is  sold.  Occasionally, 
under  good  private  management,  they 
30 


are  ventilated  and  clean.  For  the  most 
part,  they  are  unventilated  and  dirty ; 
and  to  the  reeking  walls,  putrid  fat  and 
other  offensive  animal  matter  clings 
with  a tenacious  hold.  The  busiest 
slaughter-houses  in  London  are  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Smithfield,  in  New- 
gate Market,  in  Whitechapel,  in  New- 
port Market,  in  Leadenhall  Market,  in 
Clare  Market.  All  these  places  are 
surrounded  by  houses  of  a poor  de- 
scription, swarming  with  inhabitants. 
Some  of  them  are  close  to  the  worst 
burial-grounds  in  London.  When  the 
slaughter-house  is  below  the  ground, 
it  is  a common  practice  to  throw  the 
sheep  down  areas,  neck  and  crop,  — - 
which  is  exciting,  but  not  at  all  cruel. 
When  it  is  on  the  level  surface,  it  is 
often  extremely  difficult  of  approach. 
Then  the  beasts  have  to  be  worried 
and  goaded  and  pronged  and  tail-twist- 
ed for  a long  time  before  they  «n  be 
got  in,  — which  is  entirely  owing  to 
their  natural  obstinacy.  When  it  is  not 
difficult  of  approach,  but  is  in  a foul 
condition,  what  they  see  and  scent 
makes  them  still  more  reluctant  to  enter, 
— which  is  their  natural  obstinacy  again. 
When  they  do  get  in  at  last,  after  no 
trouble  and  suffering  to  speak  of  (for 
there  is  nothing  in  the  previous  journey 
into  the  heart  of  London,  the  night’s 
endurance  in  Smithfield,  the  struggle 
out  again,  among  the  crowded  multi- 
tude, the  coaches,  carts,  wagons,  om- 
nibuses, gigs,  chaises,  phaetons,  cabs, 
trucks,  dogs,  boys,  whoopings,  roarings, 
and  ten  thousand  other  distractions), 
they  are  represented  to  be  in  a most 
unfit  state  to  be  killed,  according  to  mi- 
croscopic examinations  made  of  their 
fevered  blood  by  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished physiologists  in  the  world, 
Professor  Owen, — but  that’s  hum- 
bug. When  they  are  killed,  at  last, 
their  reeking  carcasses  are  hung  in  im- 
pure air,  to  become,  as  the  same  Pro- 
fessor will  explain  to  you,  less  nutritious 
and  more  unwholesome,  — but  he  is 
only  an  w«common  counsellor,  so  don’t 
mind  him.  In  half  a quarter  of  a mile’s 
length  of  Whitechapel,  at  one  time, 
there  shall  be  six  hundred  newly  slaugh- 
tered oxen  hanging  up,  and  seven  hun- 
dred sheep ; but  the  more  the  mer- 


466 


A MONUMENT  OF  FRENCH  FOLLY. 


rier,  — proof  of  prosperity.  Hard  by 
Snow  Hill  and  Warwick  Lane,  you 
shall  see  the  little  children,  inured  to 
sights  of  brutality  from  their  birth,  trot- 
ting along  the  alleys,  mingled  with 
troops  of  horribly  busy  pigs,  up  to  their 
ankles  in  blood, — but  it  makes  the 
young  rascals  hardy.  Into  the  imper- 
fect sewers  of  this  overgrown  city,  you 
shall  have  the  immense  mass  of  corrup- 
tion, engendered  by  these  practices, 
lazily  thrown  out  of  sight,  to  rise,  in 
poisonous  gases,  into  your  house  at 
night,  when  your  sleeping  children  will 
most  readily  absorb  them,  and  to  find 
its  languid  way,  at  last,  into  the  river 
that  you  drink,  — but  the  French  are  a 
frog-eating  people  who  wear  wooden 
shoes,  and  it ’s  O,  the  roast-beef  of 
England,  my  boy,  the  jolly  old  English 
roast-beef. 

It  is  quite  a mistake  — a new-fangled 
notion  altogether  — to  suppose  that 
there  is  any  natural  antagonism  between 
utrefaction  and  health.  They  know 
etter  than  that  in  the  Common  Coun- 
cil. You  may  talk  about  Nature,  in 
her  wisdom,  always  warning  man 
through  his  sense  of  smell,  when  he 
draws  near  to  something  dangerous ; 
but  that  won’t  go  down  in  the  city. 
Nature  very  often  don’t  mean  anything. 
Mrs.  Quickly  says  that  prunes  are  ill 
for  a green  wound  ; but  whosoever  says 
that  putrid  animal  substances  are  ill 
for  a green  wound,  or  for  robust  vigor, 
or  for  anything  or  for  anybody,  is  a 
humanity-monger  and  a humbug.  Brit- 
ons never,  never,  never,  &c.,  therefore. 
And  prosperity  to  cattle-driving,  cattle- 
slaughtering, bone-crushing,  blood-boil- 
ing, trotter-scraping,  tripe -dressing, 

paunch-cleaning,  gut-spinning,  hide- 
preparing, tallow-melting,  and  other 
salubrious  proceedings,  in  the  midst 
of  hospitals,  churchyards,  workhouses, 
schools,  infirmaries,  refuges,  dwellings, 
provision-shops,  nurseries,  sick-beds, 
every  stage  and  baiting-place  in  the 
journey  from  birth  to  death  ! 

These  ««common  counsellors,  your 
Professor  Owens  and  fellows,  will  con- 
tend that  to  tolerate  these  things  in  a 
civilized  city,  is  to  reduce  it  to  a worse 
condition  than  Bruce  found  to  prevail 
in  Abyssinia.  For  there  (say  they)  the 


jackals  and  wild  dogs  came  at  night  to 
devour  the  offal ; whereas  here  there 
are  no  such  natural  scavengers,  and 
quite  as  savage  customs.  Further,  they 
will  demonstrate  that  nothing  in  nature 
is  intended  to  be  wasted,  and  that  be- 
sides the  waste  which  such  abuses  occa- 
sion in  the  articles  of  health  and  life, 
— main  sources  of  the  riches  of  an.y 
community,  — they  lead  to  a prodigious 
waste  of  changing  matters,  which  might, 
with  proper  preparation  and  under  sci- 
entific direction,  be  safely  applied  to 
the  increase  of  the  fertility  of  the  land. 
Thus  (they  argue)  does  Nature  ever 
avenge  infractions  of  her  beneficent 
laws,  and  so  surely  as  Man  is  deter- 
mined to  warp  any  of  her  blessings 
into  curses,  shall  they  become  curses, 
and  shall  he  suffer  heavily.  But  this 
is  cant.  Just  as  it  is  cant  of  the 
worst  description  to  say  to  the  Lon- 
don Corporation,  “ How  can  you  ex- 
hibit to  the  people  so  plain  a specta- 
cle of  dishonest  equivocation,  as  to 
claim  the  right  of  holding  a market  in 
the  midst  qF  the  great  city,  for  one  of 
your  vested  privileges,  when  you  know 
that  when  your  last  market-holding 
charter  was  granted  to  you  by  King 
Charles  the  First,  Smithfield  stood  in 
the  suburbs  of  London,  and  is  in 
that  very  charter  so  described  in  those 
five  words  ? ” — which  is  certainly  true, 
but  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  question. 

Now  to  the  comparison,  in  these 
particulars  of  civilization,  between  the 
capital  of  England  and  the  capital  of 
that  frog-eating  and  wooden-shoe-wear- 
ing country,  which  the  illustrious  Com- 
mon Councilman  so  sarcastically  settled. 

In  Paris,  there  is  no  Cattle  Market. 
Cows  and  calves  are  sold  within  the 
city,  but  the  Cattle  Markets  are  at 
Poissy,  about  thirteen  miles  off,  on  a 
line  of  railway ; and  at  Sceaux,  about 
five  miles  off.  The  Poissy  market  is 
held  every  Thursday  ; the  Sceaux  mar- 
ket, every  Monday.  In  Paris,  there 
are  no  slaughter-houses,  in  our  accepta- 
tion of  the  term.  There  are  five  public 
Abattoirs,  — within  the  walls,  though  in 
the  suburbs, — and  in  these  all  the 
slaughtering  for  the  city  must  be  per- 
formed. They  are  managed  by  a Syn- 
dicat  or  Guild  of  Butchers,  who  confer 


A MONUMENT  OF  FRENCH  FOLLY. 


467 


with  the  Minister  of  the  Interior  on  all 
matters  affecting  the  trade,  and  who  are 
consulted  when  any  new  regulations  are 
contemplated  for  its  government.  They 
are,  likewise,  under  the  vigilant  super- 
intendence of  the  police.  Every  butch- 
er must  be  licensed ; which  proves  him 
at  once  to  be  a slave,  for  we  don’t 
license  butchers  in  England,  — we  only 
license  apothecaries,  attorneys,  post- 
masters, publicans,  hawkers,  retailers 
of  tobacco,  snuff,  pepper,  and  vinegar, 
and  one  or  two  other  little  trades  not 
worth  mentioning.  Every  arrangement 
in  connection  with  the  slaughtering  and 
sale  of  meat  is  matter  of  strict  police 
regulation.  (Slavery  again,  though  we 
certainly  have  a general  sort  of  a Police 
Act  here.) 

But  in  order  that  the  reader  may 
understand  what  a monument  of  folly 
these  frog-eaters  have  raised  in  their 
abattoirs  and  cattle-markets,  and  may 
compare  it  with  what  common  counsel- 
ling has  done  for  us  all  these  years,  and 
would  still  do,  but  for  the  innovating 
spirit  of  the  times,  here  follows  a short 
account  of  a recent  visit  to  these  places. 

It  was  as  sharp  a February  morning 
as  you  would  desire  to  feel  at  your  fin- 
gers’ ends  when  I turned  out,  — tum- 
bling over  a chiffonier  with  his  little 
basket  and  rake,  who  was  picking  up 
the  bits  of  colored  paper  that  had  been 
swept  out,  overnight,  from  a Bon-Bon 
shop,  — to  take  the  Butchers’  Train  to 
Poissy.  A cold  dim  light  just  touched 
the  high  roofs  of  the  Tuileries,  which 
have  seen  such  changes,  such  distracted 
crowds,  such  riot  and  bloodshed ; and 
they  looked  as  calm,  and  as  old,  all 
covered  with  white  frost,  as  the  very 
Pyramids.  There  was  not  light  enough, 
yet,  to  strike  upon  the  towers  of  Notre 
Dame  across  the  water ; but  I thought 
of  the  dark  pavement  of  the  old  Cathe- 
dral as  just  beginning  to  be  streaked 
with  gray ; and  of  the  lamps  in  the 
“ House  of  God,”  the  Hospital  close  to 
it,  burning  low  and  being  quenched ; 
and  of  the  keeper  of  the  Morgue  going 
about  with  a fading  lantern,  busy  in 
the  arrangement  of  his  terrible  wax- 
work  for  another  sunny  day. 

The  sun  was  up  and  shining  merrily, 


when  the  butchers  and  I,  announcing 
our  departure  with  an  engine-shriek  to 
sleepy  Paris,  rattled  away  for  the  Cattle 
Market.  Across  the  country,  over  the 
Seine,  among  a forest  of  scrubby  trees, 
— the  hoar-frost  lying  cold  in  shady 
laces,  and  glittering  in  the  light,  — and 
ere  we  are  at  Poissy ! Out  leap  the 
butchers  who  have  been  chattering  all 
the  way  like  madmen,  and  off  they 
straggle  for  the  Cattle  Market  (still 
chattering,  of  course,  incessantly),  in 
hats  and  caps  of  all  shapes,  in  coats  and 
blouses,  in  calf-skins,  cow-skins,  horse- 
skins,  furs,  shaggy  mantles,  hairy  coats, 
sacking,  baize,  oil-skin,  anything  you 
lease  that  will  keep  a man  and  a 
utcher  warm,  upon  a frosty  morning. 

Many  a French  town  have  I seen, 
between  this  spot  of  ground  and  Stras- 
burgh  or  Marseilles,  that  might  sit  for 
your  picture,  little  Poissy  ! Barring 
the  details  of  your  old  church,  I know 
you  well,  albeit  we  make  acquaintance, 
now,  for  the  first  time.  I know  your 
narrow,  straggling,  winding  streets,  with 
a kennel  in  the  midst,  and  lamps  slung 
across.  I know  your  picturesque  street- 
corners,  winding  up  hill  Heaven  knows 
why  or  where  ! I know  your  trades- 
men’s inscriptions,  in  letters  not  quite 
fat  enough  ; your  barbers’  brazen  basins 
dangling  over  little  shops ; your  Cafes 
and  Estaminets,  with  cloudy  bottles  of 
stale  syrup  in  the  windows,  and  pic- 
tures of  crossed  billiard-cues  outside. 
I know  this  identical  gray  horse,  with 
his  tail  rolled  up  in  a knot  like  the 
“back  hair”  of  an  untidy  woman,  who 
won’t  be  shod,  and  who  makes  himself 
heraldic  by  clattering  across  the  street 
on  his  hind  legs,  while  twenty  voices 
shriek  and  growl  at  him  as  a Brigand, 
an  accursed  Robber,  and  an  everlast- 
ingly-doomed Pig.  I know  your  spark- 
ling town-fountain  too,  my  Poissy,  and 
am  glad  to  see  it  near  a cattle-market, 
gushing  so  freshly  under  the  auspices 
of  a gallant  little  sublimated  French- 
man wrought  in  metal,  perched  upon 
the  top.  Through  all  the  land  of 
France  I know  this  unswept  room  at 
The  Glory,  with  its  peculiar  smell  of 
beans  and  coffee,  where  the  butchers 
crowd  about  the  stove,  drinking  the 
thinnest  of  wine  from  the  smallest  of 


468 


A MONUMENT  OF  FRENCH  FOLLY. 


tumblers ; where  the  thickest  of  coffee- 
cups  mingle  with  the  longest  of  loaves, 
and  the  weakest  of  lump-sugar;  where 
Madame  at  the  counter  easily  acknowl- 
edges the  homage  of  all  entering  and 
departing  butchers  ; where  the  billiard- 
table  is  covered  up  in  the  midst  like  a 
great  bird-cage,  — but  the  bird  may 
sing  by  and  by  ! 

A bell ! The  Calf  Market ! Polite 
departure  of  butchers.  Hasty  payment 
and  departure  on  the  part  of  amateur 
Visitor.  Madame  reproaches  Ma’am - 
selle  for  too  fine  a susceptibility  in  ref- 
erence to  the  devotion  of  a Butcher  in 
a bear-skin.  Monsieur,  the  landlord  of 
The  Glory,  counts  a double  handful  of 
sous,  without  an  unobliterated  inscrip- 
tion, or  an  undamaged  crowned  head, 
among  them. 

There  is  little  noise  without,  abun- 
dant space,  and  no  confusion.  The 
open  area  devoted  to  the  market  is 
divided  into  three  portions,  — the  Calf 
Market,  the  Cattle  Market,  the  Sheep 
Market.  Calves  at  eight,  cattle  at 
ten,  sheep  at  midday.  All  is  very  clean. 

The  Calf  Market  is  a raised  platform 
of  stone,  some  three  or  four  feet  high, 
open  on  all  sides,  with  a lofty  over- 
spreading roof,  supported  on  stone  col- 
umns, which  give  it  the  appearance  of  a 
sort  of  vineyard  from  Northern  Italy. 
Here,  on  the  raised  pavement,  lie  innu- 
merable calves,  all  bound  hind-legs  and 
fore-legs  together,  and  all  trembling  vi- 
olently, — perhaps  with  cold,  perhaps 
with  fear,  perhaps  with  pain  ; for  this 
mode  of  tying,  which  seems  to  be  an 
absolute  superstition  with  the  peasantry, 
can  hardly  fail  to  cause  great  suffering. 
Here  they  lie  patiently  in  rows,  among 
the  straw,  with  their  stolid  faces  and 
inexpressive  eyes,  superintended  by 
men  and  women,  boys  and  girls ; here 
they  are  inspected  by  our  friends  the 
butchers,  bargained  for,  and  bought. 
Plenty  of  time,  plenty  of  room,  plenty 
of  good-humor.  “ Monsieur  Francois 
in  the  bear-skin,  how  do  you  do,  my 
friend?  You  come  from  Paris  by  the 
train  ? The  fresh  air  does  you  good. 
If  you  are  in  want  of  three  or  four  fine 
calves  this  market-morning,  my  angel, 
I,  Madame  Doche,  shall  be  happy  to 
deal  with  you.  Behold  these  calves, 


Monsieur  Francois!  Great  Heaven, 
you  are  doubtful  ! Well,  sir,  walk 
round  and  look  about  you.  If  you  find 
better  for  the  money,  buy  them.  If 
not,  come  to  me  !”  Monsieur  Francois 
goes  his  way  leisurely,  and  keeps  a 
wary  eye  upon  the  stock.  No  other 
butcher  jostles  Monsieur  Francois; 
Monsieur  Francois  jostles  no  other 
butcher.  Nobody  is  flustered  and  ag- 
gravated. Nobody  is  savage.  In  the 
midst  of  the  country  blue  frocks  and 
red  handkerchiefs,  and  the  butchers’ 
coats,  shaggy,  furry,  and  hairy,  of  calf- 
skin, cow-skin,  horse-skin,  and  bear- 
skin, towers  a cocked  hat  and  a blue 
cloak.  Slavery  ! For  our  Police  wear 
great-coats  and  glazed  hats. 

But  now  the  bartering  is  over,  and 
the  calves  are  sold.  “ Ho  ! Gregorie, 
Antoine,  Jean,  Louis ! Bring  up  the 
carts,  my  children  ! Quick,  brave  in- 
fants ! Hola  ! Hi  ! ” 

The  carts,  well  littered  with  straw, 
are  backed  up  to  the  edge  of  the  raised 
pavement,  and  various  hot  infants  carry 
calves  upon  their  heads,  and  dexterous- 
ly pitch  them  in,  while  other  hot  in- 
fants, standing  in  the  carts,  arrange 
the  calves,  and  pack  them  carefully  in 
straw.  Here  is  a promising  young  calf, 
not  sold,  whom  Madame  Doche  un- 
binds. Pardon  me,  Madame  Doche, 
but  I fear  this  mode  of  tying  the  four 
legs  of  a quadruped  together,  though 
strictly  k la  mode,  is  not  quite  right. 
You  observe,  Madame  Doche,  that  the 
cord  leaves  deep  indentations  in  the 
skin,  and  that  the  animal  is  so  cramped 
at  first  as  not  to  know,  or  even  remote- 
ly suspect,  that  he  is  unbound,  until 
you  are  so  obliging  as  to  kick  him,  in 
your  delicate  little  way,  and  pull  his 
tail  like  a bell-rope.  Then  he  staggers 
to  his  knees,  not  being  able  to  stand, 
and  stumbles  about  like  a drunken  calf, 
or  the  horse  at  Franconi’s,  whom  you 
may  have  seen,  Madame  Doche,  who 
is  supposed  to  have  been  mortally 
wounded  in  battle.  But  what  is  this 
rubbing  against  me,  as  I apostrophize 
Madame  Doche?  It  is  another  heated 
infant  with  a calf  upon  his  head.  “ Par- 
don, Monsieur,  but  will  you  have  the 
politeness  to  allow  me  to  pass  ? ” “ Ah, 
sir,  willingly.  I am  vexed  to  obs*mct 


A MONUMENT  OF  FRENCH  FOLLY. 


469 


the  way.1'  On  he  staggers,  calf  and  all, 
and  makes  no  allusion  whatever  either 
to  my  eyes  or  limbs. 

Now  the  carts  are  all  full.  More 
straw,  my  Antoine,  to  shake  over  these 
top  rows ; then  off  we  will  clatter,  rum- 
ble, jolt,  and  rattle,  a long  row  of  us, 
out  of  the  first  town-gate,  and  out  at 
the  second  town-gate,  and  past  the 
empty  sentry-box,  and  the  little  thin 
square  band-box  of  a guard-house, 
where  nobody  seems  to  live  ; and  away 
for  Paris,  by  the  paved  road,  lying,  a 
straight,  straight  line,  in  the  long,  long 
avenue  of  trees.  We  can  neither  choose 
our  road  nor  our  pace,  for  that  is  all 
prescribed  to  us.  The  public  conven- 
ience demands  that  our  carts  should 
get  to  Paris  by  such  a route,  and  no 
other  (Napoleon  had  leisure  to  find  that 
out,  while  he  had  a little  war  with  the 
world  upon  his  hands),  and  woe  betide 
us  if  we  infringe  orders. 

Droves  of  oxen  stand  in  the  Cattle 
Market,  tied  to  iron  bars  fixed  into 
posts  of  granite.  Other  droves  advance 
slowly  down  the  long  avenue,  past  the 
second  town-gate,  and  the  first  town- 
gate,  and  the  sentry-box,  and  the  band- 
box,  thawing  the  morning  with  their 
smoky  breath  as  they  come  along. 
Plenty  of  room;  plenty  of  time.  Nei- 
ther man  nor  beast  is  driven  out  of  his 
wits  by  coaches,  carts,  wagons,  omni- 
buses, gigs,  chaises,  phaetons,  cabs, 
trucks,  boys,  whoopings,  roarings,  and 
multitudes.  No  tail-twisting  is  neces- 
sary, — no  iron  pronging  is  necessary. 
There  are  no  iron  prongs  here.  The 
market  for  cattle  is  held  as  quietly  as 
the  market  for  calves.  In  due  time,  off 
the  cattle  go  to  Paris  ; the  drovers  can 
no  more  choose  their  road,  nor  their 
time,  nor  the  numbers  they  shall  drive, 
than  they  can  choose  their  hour  for 
dying  in  the  course  of  nature. 

Sheep  next.  The  Sheep-pens  are  up 
here,  past  the  Branch  Bank  of  Paris, 
established  for  the  convenience  of  the 
butchers,  and  behind  the  two  pretty 
fountains  they  are  making  in  the  Mar- 
ket. My  name  is  Bull  ; yet  I think  I 
should  like  to  see  as  good  twin  foun- 
tains, — not  to  say  in  Smithfield,  but  in 
England  anywhere.  Plenty  of  room ; 
plenty  of  time.  And  here  are  sheep- 


dogs, sensible  as  ever,  but  with  a cer- 
tain French  air  about  them,  — not  with- 
out a suspicion  of  dominos,  — with  a 
kind  of  flavor  of  mustache  and  beard, 
— demonstrative  dogs,  shaggy  and  loose 
where  an  English  dog  would  be  tight 
and  close,  — not  so  troubled  with  busi- 
ness calculations  as  our  English  drov- 
ers’ dogs,  who  have  always  got  their 
sheep  upon  their  minds,  and  think 
about  their  work,  even  resting,  as  you 
may  see  by  their  faces ; but  dashing, 
showy,  rather  unreliable  dogs,  who 
might  worry  me  instead  of  their  legiti- 
mate charges  if  they  saw  occasion,  — 
and  might  see  it  somewhat  suddenly. 
The  market  for  sheep  passes  off  like  the 
other  two  ; and  away  they  go,  by  their 
allotted  road  to  Paris.  My  way  being 
the  Railway,  I make  the  best  of  it  at 
twenty  miles  an  hour  ; whirling  through 
the  now  high-lighted  landscape  ; think- 
ing that  the  inexperienced  green  buds 
will  be  wishing  before  long  they  had 
not  been  tempted  to  come  out  so  soon  ; 
and  wondering  who  lives  in  this  or  that 
chateau,  all  window  ^gnd  lattice,  and 
what  the  family  may  have  for  breakfast 
this  sharp  morning. 

After  the  Market  comes  the  Abattoir. 
What  abattoir  shall  I visit  first? 
Montmartre  is  the  largest.  So  I will 
go  there. 

The  abattoirs  are  all  within  the  walls 
of  Paris,  with  an  eye  to  the  receipt  of 
the  octroi  duty  ; but  they  stand  in  open 
places  in  the  suburbs,  removed  from  the 
press  and  bustle  of  the  city.  They  are 
managed  by  the  Syndicat  or  Guild  of 
Butchers,  under  the  inspection  of  the 
Police.  Certain  smaller  items  of  the 
revenue  derived  from  them  are  in  part 
retained  by  the  Guild  for  the  payment 
of  their  expenses,  and  in  part  devoted 
by  it  to  charitable  purposes  in  connec- 
tion with  the  trade.  They  cost  six  hun- 
dred and  eighty  thousand  pounds  ; and 
they  return  to  the  city  of  Paris  an  inter- 
est on  that  outlay,  amounting  to  nearly 
six  and  a half  per  cent. 

Here,  in  a sufficiently  dismantled 
space,  is  the  Abattoir  of  Montmartre, 
covering  nearly  nine  acres  of  ground, 
surrounded  by  a high  wall,  and  looking 
from  the  outside  like  a cavalry  barrack. 
At  the  iron  gates  is  a small  functionary 


/jo 


A MONUMENT  OF  FRENCH  FOLLY. 


in  a large  cocked  hat.  “ Monsieur  de- 
sires to  see  the  abattoir  ? Most  certain- 
ly.” State  being  inconvenient  in  pri- 
vate transactions,  and  Monsieur  being 
already  aware  of  the  cocked  hat,  the 
functionary  puts  it  into  a little  official 
bureau  which  it  almost  fills,  and  accom- 

anies  me  in  the  modest  attire  — as  to 

is  head  — of  ordinary  life. 

Many  of  the  animals  from  Poissy 
have  come  here.  On  the  arrival  of  each 
drove,  it  was  turned  into  yonder  ample 
space,  where  each  butcher  who  had 
bought,  selected  his  own  purchases. 
Some,  we  see  now,  in  these  long  per- 
spectives of  stalls  with  a high  over- 
hanging roof  of  wood  and  open  tiles  ris- 
ing above  the  walls.  While  they  rest 
here,  before  being  slaughtered,  they  are 
required  to  be  fed  and  watered,  and 
the  stalls  must  be  kept  clean.  A stated 
amount  of  fodder  must  always  be  ready 
in  the  loft  above  ; and  the  supervision 
is  of  the  strictest  kind.  The  same  reg- 
ulations apply  to  sheep  and  calves ; for 
which,  portions  of  these  perspectives 
are  strongly  railed  off.  All  the  build- 
ings are  of  the  strongest  and  most  solid 
description. 

After  traversing  these  lairs,  through 
which,  besides  the  up>per  provision  for 
ventilation  just  mentioned,  there  may 
be  a thorough  current  of  air  from  oppo- 
site windows  in  the  side  walls,  and  from 
doors  at  either  end,  we  traverse  the 
broad,  paved  court-yard,  until  we  come 
to  the  slaughter-houses.  They  are  all 
exactly  alike,  and  adjoin  each  other,  to 
the  number  of  eight  or  nine  together,  in 
blocks  of  solid  building.  Let  us  walk 
into  the  fii'st. 

It  is  firmly  built  and  paved  with  stone. 
It  is  well  lighted,  thoroughly  aired,  and 
lavishly  provided  with  fresh  water.  It 
has  two  doors  opposite  each  other  ; the 
first,  the  door  by  which  I entered  from 
the  main  yard  ; the  second,  which  is  op- 
posite, opening  on  another  smaller  yard, 
where  the  sheep  and  calves  are  killed  on 
benches.  The  pavement  of  that  yard,  I 
see,  slopes  downward  to  a gutter,  for  its 
being  more  easily  cleansed.  The  slaugh- 
ter-house is  fifteen  feet  high,  sixteen  feet 
and  a half  wide,  and  thirty-three  feet 
long.  It  is  fitted  with  a powerful  wind- 
lass, by  which  one  man  at  the  handle 


can  bring  the  head  of  an  ox  down  to  the 
ground  to  receive  the  blow  from  the 
pole-axe  that  is  to  fell  him,  — with  the 
means  of  raising  the  carcass  and  keeping 
it  suspended  during  the  after  operation 
of  dressing,  — and  with  hooks  on  which 
carcasses  can  hang,  when  completely 
prepared,  without  touching  the  walls. 
Upon  the  pavement  of  this  first  stone 
chamber  lies  an  ox  scarcely  dead.  If  I 
except  the  blood  draining  from  him, 
into  a little  stone  well  in  a comer  of 
the  pavement,  the  place  is  free  from 
offence  as  the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 
It  is  infinitely  purer  and  cleaner,  I 
know,  my  friend  the  functionary,  than 
the  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame.  Ha, 
ha ! Monsieur  is  pleasant,  but,  tru- 
ly, there  is  reason,  too,  in  what  he 
says. 

I look  into  another  of  these  slaughter- 
houses. “ Pray  enter,”  says  a gentle- 
man in  bloody  boots.  “ This  is  a calf  I 
have  killed  this  morning.  Having  a lit- 
tle time  upon  my  hands,  I have  cut  and 
punctured  this  lace  pattern  in  the  coats 
of  his  stomach.  It  is  pretty  enough.  I 
did  it  to  divert  myself.”  “It  is  beau- 
tiful, Monsieur,  the  slaughterer  ! ” He 
tells  me  I have  the  gentility  to  say 
so. 

I look  into  rows  of  slaughter-houses. 
In  many,  retail  dealers,  who  have  come 
here  for  the  purpose,  are  making  bar- 
gains for  meat.  There  is  killing  enough, 
certainly,  to  satiate  an  unused  eye  ; and 
there  are  steaming  carcasses  enough  to 
suggest  the  expediency  of  a fowl  and  sal- 
ad for  dinner  ; but,  everywhere,  there  is 
an  orderly,  clean,  well-systematized  rou- 
tine of  work  in  progress,  — horrible  work 
at  the  best,  if  you  please  ; but  so  much 
the  greater  reason  why  it  should  be 
made  the  best  of.  I don’t  know  (I 
think  I have  observed,  my  name  is 
Bull)  that  a Parisian  of  the  lowest  or- 
der is  particularly  delicate,  or  that  his 
nature  is  remarkable  for  an  infinitesi- 
mal infusion  of  ferocity ; but  I do 
know,  my  potent,  grave,  and  common- 
counselling seigniors,  that  he  is  forced, 
when  at  this  work,  to  submit  himself  to 
a thoroughly  good  system,  and  to  make 
an  Englishman  very  heartily  ashamed 
of  you. 

Here,  within  the  walls  of  the  same 


A CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


47i 


abattoir,  in  other  roomy  and  commo- 
dious build  ngs,  are  a place  for  convert- 
ing the  fat  into  tallow  and  packing  it 
for  market,  — a place  for  cleansing  and 
scalding  calves’  heads  and  sheep’s  feet, 
— a plate  for  preparing  tripe,  — stables 
and  coach-houses  for  the  butchers,  — 
innumerable  conveniences,  aiding  in  the 
diminution  of  offensiveness  to  its  low- 
est possible  point,  and  the  raising  of 
cleanliness  and  supervision  to  their 
highest.  Hence,  all  the  meat  that 
goes  out  of  the  gate  is  sent  away  in 
clean  covered  carts.  And  if  every 
trade  connected  with  the  slaughtering 
of  animals  were  obliged  by  law  to  be 
carried  on  in  the  same  place,  I doubt, 
my  friend,  now  reinstated  in  the  cocked 
hat  (whose  civility  these  two  francs 
imperfectly  acknowledge,  but  appear 
munificently  to  repay),  whether  there 
could  be  better  regulations  than  those 
which  are  carried  out  at  the  Abattoir 
of  Montmartre.  Adieu,  my  friend,  for 
I am  away  to  the  other  side  of  Paris, 
to  the  Abattoir  of  Grenelle ! And 
there  I find  exactly  the  same  thing  on 
a smaller  scale,  with  the  addition  of  a 
magnificent  Artesian  well,  and  a differ- 
ent sort  of  conductor,  in  the  person  of 
a neat  little  woman  with  neat  little 
eyes,  and  a neat  little  voice,  who  picks 
her  neat  little  way  among  the  bullocks 


in  a very  neat  little  pair  of  shoes  and 
stockings. 

Such  is  the  Monument  of  French  Fol- 
ly which  a foreigneering  people  have 
erected,  in  a national  hatred  and  antipa- 
thy for  common-counselling  wisdom. 
That  wisdom,  assembled  in  the  City  of 
London,  having  distinctly  refused,  after 
a debate  three  days  long,  and  by  a 
majority  of  nearly  seven  to  one,  to  as- 
sociate itself  with  any  Metropolitan 
Cattle  Market  unless  it  be  held  in  the 
midst  of  the  City,  it  follows  that  we 
shall  lose  the  inestimable  advantages 
of  common-counselling  protection,  and 
be  thrown,  for  a market,  on  our  own 
wretched  •resources.  In  all  human 
probability  we  shall  thus  come,  at 
last,  to  erect  a monument  of  folly  very 
like  this  French  monument.  If  that 
be  done,  the  consequences  are  obvious. 
The  leather  trade  will  be  ruined,  by 
the  introduction  of  American  timber,  to 
be  manufactured  into  shoes  for  the  fall- 
en English  ; the  Lord  Mayor  will  be  re- 
quired, by  the  popular  voice,  to  live  en- 
tirely on  frogs  ; and  both  these  changes 
will  (how,  is  not  at  present  quite  clear, 
but  certainly  somehow  or  other)  fall  on 
that  unhappy  landed  interest  which  is  al- 
ways being  killed,  yet  is  always  found  to 
be  alive  — and  kicking. 


A CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


I have  been  looking  on,  this  even- 
ing, at  a merry  company  of  children  as- 
sembled round  that  pretty  German  toy, 
a Christmas  Tree.  The  tree  was  plant- 
ed in  the  middle  of  a great  round  table, 
and  towered  high  above  their  heads. 
It  was  brilliantly  lighted  by  a multi- 
tude of  little  tapers,  and  everywhere 
sparkled  and  glittered  with  bright  ob- 
jects. There  were  rosy-cheeked  dolls, 
niding  behind  the  green  leaves  ; there 
were  real  watches  (with  movable  hands, 


at  least,  and  an  endless  capacity  of 
being  wound  up)  dangling  from  innu- 
merable twigs  ; there  were  French-pol- 
ished tables,  chairs,  bedsteads,  ward- 
robes, eight-day  clocks,  and  various 
other  articles  of  domestic  furniture 
(wonderfully  made,  in  tin,  at  Wolver- 
hampton), perched  among  the  boughs, 
as  if  in  preparation  for  some  fairy  house- 
keeping ; there  were  jolly,  broad-faced 
little  men,  much  more  agreeable  in  ap- 
pearance than  many  real  men,  — and 


472 


A CHRISTMAS  TREE . 


no  wonder,  for  their  heads  took  off,  and 
showed  them  to  be  full  of  sugar-plums  ; 
there  were  fiddles  and  drums  ; there 
were  tambourines,  books,  work-boxes, 
paint  - boxes,  sweetmeat  - boxes,  peep- 
show-boxes,  all  kinds  of  boxes ; there 
were  trinkets  for  the  elder  girls,  far 
brighter  than  any  grown-up  gold  and 
jewels ; there  were  baskets  and  pin- 
cushions in  all  devices ; there  were 
guns,  swords,  and  banners  ; there  were 
witches  standing  in  enchanted  rings  of 
pasteboard  to  tell  fortunes  ; there  were 
teetotums,  humming-tops,  needle-cases, 
pen-wipers,  smelling-bottles,  conversa- 
tion-cards, bouquet-holders  ; real  fruit, 
made  artificially  dazzling  with  gold-leaf ; 
imitation  apples,  pears,  and  walnuts, 
crammed  with  surprises  ; in  short,  as  a 
pretty  child,  before  me,  delightedly  whis- 
pered to  another  pretty  child,  her  bos- 
om friend,  “ There  was  everything,  and 
more.”  This  motley  collection  of  odd 
objects,  clustering  on  the  tree  like 
magic  fruit,  and  flashing  back  the 
bright  looks  directed  towards  it  from 
every  side,  — some  of  the  diamond-eyes 
admiring  it  were  hardly  on  a level  with 
the  table,  and  a few  were  languishing 
in  timid  wonder  on  the  bosoms  of  pret- 
ty mothers,  aunts,  and  nurses,  — made 
a lively  realization  of  the  fancies  of 
childhood,  and  set  me  thinking  how 
all  the  trees  that  grow,  and  all  the 
things  that  come  into  existence  on  the 
earth,  have  their  wild  adornments  at 
that  well-remembered  time. 

Being  now  at  home  again,  and  alone, 
the  only  person  in  the  house  awake, 
my  thoughts  are  drawn  back,  by  a fas- 
cination which  I do  not  care  to  resist, 
to  my  own  childhood.  I begin  to 
consider,  what  do  we  all  remember 
best  upon  the  branches  of  the  Christ- 
mas Tree  of  our  own  young  Christmas 
days,  by  which  we  climbed  to  real  life. 

Straight,  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
cramped  in  the  freedom  of  its  growth 
by  no  encircling  walls  or  soon-reached 
ceiling,  a shadowy  tree  arises ; and, 
looking  up  into  the  dreamy  brightness 
of  its  top,  — for  I observe  in  this  tree 
the  singular  property,  that  it  appears 
to  grow  downward  towards  the  earth,  — 
I look  into  my  youngest  Christmas 
recollections  1 


All  toys  at  first,  I find.  Up  yonder 
among  the  green  holly  and  red  berries, 
is  the  Tumbler  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  who  would  n’t  lie  down,  but 
whenever  he  was  put  upon  the  floor 
persisted  in  rolling  his  fat  body  about, 
until  he  rolled  himself  still,  and  brought 
those  lobster  eyes  of  his  to  bear  upon 
me,  — when  I affected  to  laugh  very 
much,  but  in  my  heart  of  hearts  was 
extremely  doubtful  of  him.  Close  be- 
side him  is  that  infernal  snuffbox,  out 
of  which  there  sprang  a demoniacal 
Counsellor  in  a black  gown,  with  an 
obnoxious  head  of  hair,  and  a red 
cloth  mouth,  wide  open,  who  was  not 
to  be  endured  on  any  terms,  but  could 
not  be  put  away  either  ; for  he  used 
suddenly,  in  a highly  magnified  state, 
to  fly  out  of  Mammoth  Snuffboxes  in 
dreams,  when  least  expected.  Nor  is 
the  frog  with  cobbler’s  wax  on  his  tail 
far  off ; for  there  was  no  knowing  where 
he  wouldn’t  jump;  and  when  he  flew 
over  the  candle,  and  came  upon  one’s 
hand  with  that  spotted  back,  — red  on 
a green  ground,  — he  was  horrible.  The 
card-board  lady  in  a blue  silk  skirt, 
who  was  stood  up  against  the  candle- 
stick to  dance,  and  whom  I see  on  the 
same  branch,  was  milder,  and  was 
beautiful  ; but  I can’t  say  as  much  for 
the  larger  card-board  man,  who  used 
to  be  hung  against  the  wall  and  pulled 
by  a string  ; there  was  a sinister  ex- 
pression in  that  nose  of  his  ; and  when 
lie  got  his.  legs  round  his  neck  (which 
he  very  often  did),  he  was  ghastly,  and 
not  a creature  to  be  alone  with. 

When  did  that  dreadful  Mask  first 
look  at  me  ? Who  put  it  on,  and  why 
was  I so  frightened  that  the  sight  of 
it  is  an  era  in  my  life  ? It  is  not  a 
hideous  visage  in  itself ; it  is  even 
meant  to  be  droll ; why  then  were  its 
stolid  features  so  intolerable  ? Surely 
not  because  it  hid  the  wearer’s  face. 
An  apron  would  have  done  as  much  ; 
and  though  I should  have  preferred 
even  the  apron  away,  it  would  not  have 
been  absolutely  insupportable,  like  the 
mask.  Was  it  the  immovability  of 
the  mask  ? The  doll’s  face  was  immov- 
able, but  I was  not  afraid  of  her.  Per- 
haps that  fixed  and  set  change  coming 
over  a real  face,  infused  into  my  quick- 


A CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


473 


ened  heart  some  remote  suggestion  and 
dread  of  the  universal  change  that  is 
to  come  on  every  face,  and  make  it 
still?  Nothing  reconciled  me  to  it. 
No  drummers,  from  whom  proceeded 
a melancholy  chirping  on  the  turning 
of  a handle,  — no  regiment  of  soldiers, 
with  a mute  band,  taken  out  of  a box, 
and  fitted,  one  by  one,  upon  a stiff 
and  lazy  little  set  of  lazy-tongs,  — no 
old  woman,  made  of  wires  and  a brown- 
paper  composition,  cutting  up  a pie 
for  two  small  children,  could  give  me 
a permanent  comfort,  for  a long  time. 
Nor  was  it  any  satisfaction  to  be  shown 
the  Mask,  and  see  that  it  was  made  of 
paper,  or  to  have  it  locked  up  and  be 
assured  that  no  one  wore  it.  The  mere 
recollection  of  that  fixed  face,  the  mere 
knowledge  of  its  existence  anywhere, 
was  sufficient  to  awake  me  in  the  night, 
all  perspiration  and  horror,  with,  “ O 
I know  it ’s  coming  ! O the  mask  ! ” 

I never  wondered  what  the  dear  old 
donkey  with  the  panniers  — there  he 
is  ! — was  made  of,  then  ! His  hide 
was  real  to  the  touch,  I recollect.  And 
the  great  black  horse  with  round  red 
spots  all  over  him,  — the  horse  that  I 
could  even  get  upon,  — I never  won- 
dered what  had  brought  him  to  that 
strange  condition,  or  thought  that  such 
a horse  was  not  commonly  seen  at 
Newmarket.  The  four  horses  of  no 
color,  next  to  him,  that  went  into  the 
wagon  of  cheeses,  and  could  be  taken 
out  and  stabled  under  the  piano,  appear 
to  have  bits  of  fur-tippet  for  their  tails, 
and  other  bits  for  their  manes,  and  to 
stand  on  pegs  instead  of  legs,  but  it  was 
not  so  when  they  were  brought  home 
for  a Christmas  present.  They  were 
all  right,  then ; neither  was  their  har- 
ness unceremoniously  nailed  into  their 
chests,  as  appears  to  be  the  case  now. 
The  tinkling  works  of  the  music-cart 
I did  find  out  to  be  made  of  quill 
toothpicks  and  wire  ; and  I always 
thought  that  little  tumbler  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, perpetually  swarming  up  one 
side  of  a wooden  frame,  and  coming 
down,  head  foremost,  on  the  other, 
rather  a weak-minded  person,  though 
good-natured  ; but  the  Jacob’s  Ladder, 
next  him,  made  of  little  squares  of  red 
wood,  that  went  flapping  and  clattering 


over  one  another,  each  developing  a 
different  picture,  and  the  whole  enliv- 
ened by  small  bells,  was  a mighty  mar- 
vel and  a great  delight. 

Ah  ! The  Doll’s  house  ! — of  which 
I was  not  proprietor,  but  where  I visited. 
I don’t  admire  the  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment half  so  much  as  that  stone-fronted 
mansion  with  real  glass  windows,  and 
door-steps,  and  a real  balcony,  — green- 
er than  I ever  see  now,  except  at  water- 
ing-places ; and  even  they  afford  but  a 
poor  imitation.  And  though  it  did  open 
all  at  once,  the  entire  house-front  (which 
was  a blow,  I admit,  as  cancelling  the 
fiction  of  a staircase),  it  was  but  to  shut 
it  up  again,  and  I could  believe.  Even 
open,  there  were  three  distinct  rooms  in 
it,  — a sitting-room  and  bedroom,  ele- 
gantly furnished,  and,  best  of  all,  a 
kitchen,  with  uncommonly  soft  fire- 
irons,  a plentiful  assortment  of  diminu- 
tive utensils  — oh,  the  warming-pan  ! — 
and  a tin  man-cook  in  profile,  who  was 
always  going  to  fry  two  fish.  What 
Barmecide  justice  have  I done  to  the 
noble  feasts  wherein  the  set  of  wooden 
piatters  figured,  each  with  its  own  pe- 
culiar delicacy,  as  a ham  or  turkey, 
glued  tight  on  to  it,  and  garnished  with 
something  green,  which  I recollect  as 
moss  ! Could  all  the  Temperance  So- 
cieties of  these  later  days,  united,  give 
me  such  a tea-drinking  as  I have  had 
through  the  means  of  yonder  little  set 
of  blue  crockery,  which  really  would 
hold  liquid  (it  ran  out  of  the  small  wood- 
en cask,  I recollect,  and  tasted  of  match- 
es), and  which  made  tea,  nectar.  And 
if  the  two  legs  of  the  ineffectual  little 
sugar-tongs  did  tumble  over  one  anoth- 
er, and  want  purpose,  like  Punch’s 
hands,  what  does  it  matter?  And  if  I 
did  once  shriek  out,  as  a poisoned  child, 
and  strike  the  fashionable  company  with 
consternation,  by  reason  of  having  drunk 
a little  teaspoon,  inadvertently  dissolved 
in  too  hot  tea,  I was  never  the  worse 
for  it,  except  by  a powder  ! 

Upon  the  next  branches  of  the  tree, 
lower  down,  hard  by  the  green  roller 
and  miniature  gardening-tools,  how 
thick  the  books  begin  to  hang.  Thin 
books,  in  themselves,  at  first,  but  many 
of  them,  and  with  deliciously  smooth 
covers  of  bright  red  or  green.  What 


474 


A CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


fat  black  letters  to  begin  with  ! “ A was 
an  archer,  and  shot  at  a frog.”  Of 
course  he  was.  He  was  an  apple-pie 
also,  and  there  he  is  ! He  was  a good 
many  things  in  his  time,  was  A,  and  so 
were  most  of  his  friends,  except  X,  who 
had  so  little  versatility,  that  I never  knew 
him  to  get  beyond  Xerxes  or  Xanthippe 
— like  Y,  who  was  always  confined  to  a 
Yacht  or  a Yew  Tree  ; andZ,  condemned 
forever  to  be  a Zebra  or  a Zany.  But 
now,  the  very  tree  itself  changes,  and 
becomes  a bean-stalk,  — the  marvellous 
bean-stalk  up  which  Jack  climbed  to 
the  Giant’s  house  ! And  now,  those 
dreadfully  interesting,  double-headed 
giants,  with  their  clubs  over  their  shoul- 
ders, begin  to  stride  along  the  boughs 
in  a perfect  throng,  dragging  knights 
and  ladies  home  for  dinner  by  the  hair 
of  their  heads.  And  Jack,  — how  noble, 
with  his  sword  of  sharpness,  and  his 
shoes  of  swiftness  ! Again  those  old 
meditations  come  upon  me  as  I gaze 
up  at  him  ; and  I debate  within  myself 
■whether  there  was  more  than  one  Jack 
(which  I am  loath  to  believe  possible), 
or  only  one  genuine,  original,  admirable 
Jack,  who  achieved  all  the  recorded 
exploits. 

Good  for  Christmas  time  is  the  ruddy 
color  of  the  cloak  in  which  — the  tree 
making  a forest  of  itself  for  her  to  trip 
through,  with  her  basket  — Little  Red 
Riding-Hood  comes  to  me  one  Christ- 
mas eve  to  give  me  information  of  the 
cruelty  and  treachery  of  that  dissem- 
bling Wolf  who  ate  her  grandmother, 
without  making  any  impression  on  his 
appetite,  and  then  ate  her,  after  making 
that  ferocious  joke  about  his  teeth. 
She  was  my  first  love.  I felt  that  if  I 
could  have  married  Little  Red  Riding- 
Hood,  I should  have  known  perfect 
bliss.  But  it  was  not  to  be  ; and  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  look  out  the 
Wolf  in  the  Noah’s  Ark  there,  and  put 
him  late  in  the  procession  on  the  table, 
as  a monster  who  was  to  be  degraded. 
O the  wonderful  Noah’s  Ark  ! It  was 
not  found  seaworthy  when  put  in  a wash- 
ing-tub, and  the  animals  were  crammed 
in  at  the  roof,  and  needed  to  have  their 
legs  well  shaken  down  before  they  could 
be  got  in,  even  there,  — and  then,  ten  to 
one  but  they  began  to  tumble  out  at  the 


door,  which  was  but  imperfectly  fastened 
with  a wire  latch,  — but  what  was  that 
against  it ! Consider  the  noble  fly,  a 
size  or  two  smaller  than  the  elephant ; 
the  lady-bird,  the  butterfly,  — all  tri- 
umphs of  art  ! Consider  the  goose, 
whose  feet  were  so  small,  and  whose 
balance  was  so  indifferent  that  he  usu- 
ally tumbled  forward,  and  knocked 
down  all  the  animal  creation.  Con- 
sider Noah  and  his  family,  like  idiotic 
tobacco-stoppers  ; and  how  the  leopard 
stuck  to  warm  little  fingers ; and  how 
the  tails  of  the  larger  animals  used 
gradually  to  resolve  themselves  into 
frayed  bits  of  string  ! 

Hush ! Again  a forest,  and  some- 
body up  in  a tree,  — not  Robin  Hood, 
not  Valentine,  not  the  Yellow  Dwarf  (I 
have  passed  him  and  all  Mother  Bunch’s 
wonders,  without  mention),  but  an  East- 
ern King  with  a glittering  scymitar  and 
turban.  By  Allah  ! two  Eastern  Kings, 
for  I see  another,  looking  over  his 
shoulder  ! Down  upon  the  grass,  at 
the  tree’s  foot,  lies  the  full  length  of  a 
coal-black  Giant,  stretched  asleep,  with 
his  head  in  a lady’s  lap ; and  near  them 
is  a glass  box,  fastened  with  four  locks 
of  shining  steel,  in  which  he  keeps  the 
lady  prisoner  when  he  is  awake.  I see 
the  four  keys  at  his  girdle  now.  The 
lady  makes  signs  to  the  two  kings  in 
the  tree,  who  softly  descend.  It  is  the 
setting  in  of  the  bright  Arabian  Nights. 

O,  now  all  common  things  become 
uncommon  and  enchanted  to  me  ! All 
lamps  are  wonderful ; all  rings  are  talis- 
mans. Common  flower-pots  are  full  of 
treasure,  with  a little  earth  scattered  on 
the  top  ; trees  are  for  Ali  Baba  to  hide 
in ; beefsteaks  are  to  throw  down  into 
the  Valley  of  Diamonds,  that  the  pre- 
cious stones  may  stick  to  them,  and  be 
carried  by  the  eagles  to  their  nests, 
whence  the  traders,  with  loud  cries, 
will  scare  them.  Tarts  are  made,  ac- 
cording to  the  recipe  of  the  Vizier’s 
son  of  Bussorah,  who  turned  pastry- 
cook after  he  was  set  down  in  his  draw- 
ers at  the  gate  of  Damascus;  cobblers 
are  all  Mustaphas,  and  in  the  habit  of 
sewing  up  people  cut  into  four  pieces, 
to  whom  they  are  taken  blindfold. 

Any  iron  ring  let  into  stone  is  the 
entrance  to  a cave  which  only  waits  for 


A CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


475 


the  magician,  and  the  little-fire,  and  the 
necromancy,  that  will  make  the  earth 
shake.  All  the  dates  imported  come 
from  the  same  tree  as  that  unlucky  date 
with  whose  shell  the  merchant  knocked 
out  the  eye  of  the  genie’s  invisible 
son.  All  olives  are  of  the  stock  of 
that  fresh  fruit  concerning  which  the 
Commander  of  the  Faithful  overheard 
the  boy  conduct  the  fictitious  trial  of 
the  fraudulent  olive  merchant;  all  ap- 
ples are  akin  to  the  apple  purchased 
(with  two  others)  from  the  Sultan’s 
gardener  for  three  sequins,  and  which 
the  tall  black  slave  stole  from  the  child. 
All  dogs  are  associated  with  the  dog, 
really  a transformed  man,  who  jumped 
upon  the  baker’s  counter,  and  put  his 
paw  on  the  piece  of  bad  money.  All 
rice  recalls  the  rice  which  the  awful 
lady,  who  was  a ghoul,  could  only  peck 
by  grains,  because  of  her  nightly  feasts 
in  the  burial-place.  My  very  rocking- 
horse — there  he  is,  with  his  nostrils 
turned  completely  inside-out,  indicative 
of  blood ! — should  have  a peg  in  his 
neck,  by  virtue  thereof  to  fly  away  with 
me,  as  the  wooden  horse  did  with  the 
Prince  of  Persia,  in  the  sight  of  all  his 
father’s  court. 

Yes,  on  every  object  that  I recognize 
among  those  upper  branches  of  my 
Christmas  Tree,  I see  this  fairy  light  ! 
When  I awake  in  bed,  at  daybreak, 
on  the  cold  dark  winter  mornings,  the 
white  snow  dimly  beheld,  outside, 
through  the  frost  on  the  window-pane, 
I hear  Dinarzade.  “Sister,  sister,  if 
you  are  yet  awake,  I pray  you  finish  the 
history  of  the  Young  King  of  the  Black 
Islands.”  Scheherazade  replies,  “If 
my  lord  the  Sultan  will  suffer  me  to 
live  another  day,  sister,  I will  not  only 
finish  that,  but  tell  you  a more  wonder- 
ful story  yet.”  Then  the  gracious  Sul- 
tan goes  out,  giving  no  orders  for  the  ex- 
ecution, and  we  all  three  breathe  again. 

At  this  height  of  my  tree  I begin  to 
see,  cowering  among  the  leaves,  — it 
may  be  born  of  turkey  or  of  pudding  or 
mince-pie,  or  of  these  many  fancies, 
jumbled  with  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his 
desert  island,  Philip  Quarll  among  the 
monkeys,  Sandford  and  Merton  with 
Mr.  Barlow,  Mother  Bunch,  and  the 
Mask,  — or  it  may  be  the  result  of  indi- 


gestion, assisted  by  imagination  and 
over-doctoring,  — a prodigious  night- 
mare. It  is  so  exceedingly  indistinct 
that  I don’t  know  why  it ’s  frightful,  — 
but  I know  it  is.  I can  only  make  out 
that  it  is  an  immense  array  of  shapeless 
things,  which  appear  to  be  planted  on  a 
vast  exaggeration  of  the  lazy-tongs  that 
used  to  bear  the  toy  soldiers,  and  to  be 
slowly  coming  close  to  my  eyes,  and 
receding  to  an  immeasurable  distance. 
When  it  comes  closest,  it  is  worst.  In 
connection  with  it  I descry  remem- 
brances of  winter  nights  incredibly 
long ; of  being  sent  early  to  bed,  as  a 
punishment  for  some  small  offence,  and 
waking  in  two  hours,  with  a sensation 
of  having  been  asleep  two  nights ; of 
the  laden  hopelessness  of  morning  ever 
dawning ; and  the  oppression  of  a 
weight  of  remorse. 

And  now,  I see  a wonderful  row  of 
little  lights  rise  smoothly  out  of  the 
ground,  before  a vast  green  curtain. 
Now,  a bell  rings,  — a magic  bell, 
which  still  sounds  in  my  ears  unlike  all 
other  bells, — and  music  plays,  amidst 
a buzz  of  voices,  and  a fragrant  smell  of 
orange-peel  and  oil.  Anon  the  magic 
bell  commands  the  music  to  cease,  and 
the  great  green  curtain  rolls  itself  up 
majestically,  and  The  Play  begins ! 
The  devoted  dog  of  Montargis  avenges 
the  death  of  his  master,  foully  murdered 
in  the  Forest  of  Bondy  ; and  a humor- 
ous Peasant  with  a red  nose  and  a very 
little  hat,  whom  I take  from  this  hour 
forth  to  my  bosom  as  a friend,  (I  think 
he  was  a Waiter  or  an  Hostler  at  a vil- 
lage Inn,  but  many  years  have  passed 
since  he  and  I have  met,)  remarks  that 
the  sassigassity  of  that  dog  is  indeed 
surprising ; and  evermore  this  jocular 
conceit  will  live  in  my  remembrance 
fresh  and  unfading,  overtopping  all  pos- 
sible jokes,  unto  the  end  of  time.  Or 
now,  I learn  with  bitter  tears  how  poor 
Jane  Shore,  dressed  all  in  white,  and 
with  her  brown  hair  hanging  down, 
went  starving  through  the  streets  ; or 
how  George  Barnwell  killed  the  wor- 
thiest uncle  that  ever  man  had,  and  was 
afterwards  so  sorry  for  it  that  he  ought 
to  have  been  let  off.  Comes  swift  to 
comfort  me,  the  Pantomime,  — stu- 
pendous Phenomenon! — when  Clowns 


476 


A CHRISTMAS  TREE . 


are  shot  from  loaded  mortars  into 
the  great  chandelier,  bright  constella- 
tion that  it  is ; when  Harlequins,  cov- 
ered all  over  with  scales  of  pure  gold, 
twist  and  sparkle,  like  amazing  fish ; 
when  Pantaloon  (whom  I deem  it  no 
irreverence  to  compare  in  my  own  mind 
to  my  grandfather)  puts  red-hot  pokers 
in  his  pocket,  and  cries,  “ Here’s  some- 
body coming ! ” or  taxes  the  Clown 
with  petty  larceny,  by  saying,  “ Now,  I 
sawed  you  do  it ! ” when  Everything  is 
capable,  with  the  greatest  ease,  of  being 
changed  into  Anything ; and  “ Noth- 
ing is,  but  thinking  makes  it  so.” 
Now,  too,  I perceive  my  first  expe- 
rience of  the  dreary  sensation,  — often 
to  return  in  after  life,  — of  being  unable, 
next  day,  to  get  back  to  the  dull,  settled 
world ; of  wanting  to  live  forever  in 
the  bright  atmosphere  I have  quitted  ; 
of  doting  on  the  little  Fairy,  with  the 
wand  like  a celestial  Barber’s  Pole,  and 
pining  for  a Fairy  immortality  along 
with  her.  Ah,  she  comes  back,  in 
many  shapes,  as  my  eye  winders  down 
the  branches  of  my  Christmas  Tree, 
and  goes  as  often,  and  has  never  yet 
stayed  by  me  ! 

Out  of  this  delight  springs  the  toy- 
theatre, — there  it  is,  with  its  familiar 
proscenium,  and  ladies  in  feathers  in 
the  boxes  ! — and  all  its  attendant  oc- 
cupation with  paste  and  glue  and  gum 
and  water  colors,  in  the  getting  up  of 
The  Miller  and  his  Men,  and  Elizabeth, 
or  the  Exile  of  Siberia.  In  spite  of  a 
few  besetting  accidents  and  failures 
(particularly  an  unreasonable  disposi- 
tion in  the  respectable  Kelmar,  and 
some  others,  to  become  faint  in  the 
legs,  and  double  up,  at  exciting  points 
of  the  drama),  a teeming  world  of  fan- 
cies so  suggestive  and  all-embracing, 
that,  far  below  it  on  my  Christmas 
Tree,  I see  dark,  dirty,  real  Theatres 
in  the  daytime,  adorned  with  these  as- 
sociations as  with  the  freshest  garlands 
of  the  rarest  flowers,  and  charming  me 
yet. 

But  hark  ! The  Waits  are  playing, 
and  they  break  my  childish  sleep  ! 
What  images  do  I associate  with  the 
Christmas  music  as  I see  them  set  forth 
on  the  Christmas  Tree  ? Known  before 
all  the  others,  keeping  far  apart  from 


all  the  others,  they  gather  round  my 
little  bed.  An  angel,  speaking  to  a 
group  of  shepherds  in  a field  ; some 
travellers,  with  eyes  uplifted,  following 
a star  ; a baby  in  a manger  ; a child  in 
a spacious  temple,  talking  with  grave 
men  ; a solemn  figure,  with  a mild  and 
beautiful  face,  raising  a dead  girl  by  the 
hand ; again,  near  a city  gate,  calling 
back  the  son  of  a widow,  on  his  bier,  to 
life  ; a crowd  of  people  looking  through 
the  opened  roof  of  a chamber  where  he 
sits,  and  letting  down  a sick  person  on 
a bed,  with  ropes  ; the  same,  in  a tem- 
pest, walking  on  the  water  to  a ship  ; 
again,  on  a sea-shore,  teaching  a great 
multitude  ; again,  with  a child  upon  his 
knee,  and  other  children  round ; again, 
restoring  sight  to  the  blind,  speech  to 
the  dumb,  hearing  to  the  deaf,  health 
to  the  sick,  strength  to  the  lame,  knowl- 
edge to  the  ignorant ; again,  dying  upon 
a Cross,  watched  by  armed  soldiers,  a 
thick  darkness  coming  on,  the  earth  be- 
ginning to  shake,  and  only  one  voice 
heard.  “ Forgive  them,  for  they  know 
not  what  they  do  ! ” 

Still,  on  the  lower  and  maturer  branch- 
es of  the  Tree,  Christmas  associations 
cluster  thick.  School-books  shut  up  ; 
Ovid  and  Virgil  silenced  ; the  Rule  of 
Three,  with  its  cool  impertinent  in- 
quiries, long  disposed  of ; Terence  and 
Plautus  acted  no  more,  in  an  arena  of 
huddled  desks  and  forms,  all  chipped, 
and  notched,  and  inked  ; cricket-bats, 
stumps,  and  balls,  left  higher  up,  with 
the  smell  of  trodden  grass  and  the  soft- 
ened noise  of  shouts  in  the  evening  air ; 
the  tree  is  still  fresh,  still  gay.  If  I no 
more  come  home  at  Christmas  time, 
there  will  be  girls  and  boys  (thank 
Heaven  !)  while  the  World  lasts  ; and 
they  do  ! Yonder  they  dance  and  play 
upon  the  branches  of  my  Tree,  God 
bless  them,  merrily,  and  my  heart  dan- 
ces and  plays  too  ! 

And  I do  coipe  home  at  Christmas. 
We  all  do,  or  we  all  should.  We  all 
come  home,  or  ought  to  come  home, 
for  a short  holiday  — the  longer  the 
better  — from  the  great  boarding-school, 
where  we  are  forever  working  at  our 
arithmetical  slates,  to  take  and  give  a 
rest.  As  to  going  a visiting,  where  can 
w'e  not  go,  if  we  will,  where  have  we 


A CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


477 


not  been,  when  we  would,  starting  our 
fancy  from  our  Christmas  Tree  ? 

Away  into  the  winter  prospect.  There 
are  many  such  upon  the  tree  ! On,  by 
low-lying  misty  grounds,  through  fens 
and  fogs,  up  long  hills,  winding  dark 
as  caverns  between  thick  plantations, 
almost  shutting  out  the  sparkling  stars  ; 
so  out  on  broad  heights,  until  we  stop 
at  last,  with  sudden  silence,  at  an  ave- 
nue. The  gate-bell  has  a deep,  half- 
awful  sound  in  the  frosty  air  ; the  gate 
swings  open  on  its  hinges  ; and  as  we 
drive  up  to  a great  house,  the  glan- 
cing lights  grow  larger  in  the  windows, 
and  the  opposing  rows  of  trees  seem  to 
fall  solemnly  back  on  either  side  to  give 
us  place.  At  intervals,  all  day,  a fright- 
ened hare  has  shot  across  this  whitened 
turf ; or  the  distant  clatter  of  a herd  of 
deer  trampling  the  hard  frost  has,  for 
the  minute,  crushed  the  silence  too. 
Their  watchful  eyes  beneath  the  fern 
may  be  shining  now,  if  we  could  see 
them,  like  the  icy  dewdrops  on  the 
leaves ; but  they  are  still,  and  all  is  still. 
And  so,  the  lights  growing  larger,  and 
the  trees  falling  back  before  us,  and 
closing  up  again  behind  us,  as  if  to  for- 
bid retreat,  we  come  to  the  house. 

There  is  probably  a smell  of  roasted 
chestnuts  and  other  good  comfortable 
things  all  the  time,  for  we  are  telling 
Winter  Stories  — Ghost  Stories,  or  more 
shame  for  us — round  the  Christmas 
fire ; and  we  have  never  stirred,  except 
to  draw  a little  nearer  to  it.  But  no 
matter  for  that.  We  came  to  the  house, 
and  it  is  an  old  house,  full  of  great 
chimneys  where  wood  is  burnt  on  an- 
cient dogs  upon  the  hearth,  and  grim 
portraits  (some  of  them  with  grim  le- 
gends, too)  lower  distrustfully  from  the 
oaken  panels  of  the  walls.  We  are  a 
middle-aged  nobleman,  and  we  make 
a generous  supper  with  our  host  and 
hostess  and  their  guests,  — it  being 
Christmas  time,  and  the  old  house  full 
of  company,  — and  then  we  go  to  bed. 
Our  room  is  a very  old  room.  It  is 
hung  with  tapestry.  We  don’t  like  the 
portrait  of  a cavalier  in  green,  over  the 
fireplace.  There  are  great  black  beams 
in  the  ceiling,  and  there  is  a great  black 
bedstead,  supported  at  the  foot  by  two 
great  black  figures,  who  seem  to  have 


come  off  a couple  of  tombs  in  the  old 
baronial  church  in  the  park,  for  our  par- 
ticular accommodation.  But  we  are 
not  a superstitious  nobleman,  and  we 
don’t  mind.  Well ! we  dismiss  our  ser- 
vant, lock  the  door,  and  sit  before  the 
fire  in  our  dressing-gown,  musing  about 
a great  many  things.  At  length  we  go  to 
bed.  Well  ! we  can’t  sleep.  We  toss  and 
tumble,  and  can’t  sleep.  The  embers  - 
on  the  hearth  burn  fitfully,  and  make 
the  room  look  ghostly.  We  can’t  help 
peeping  out  over  the  counterpane  at 
the  two  black  figures  and  the  cavalier 
— that  wicked-looking  cavalier  — in 
green.  In  the  flickering  light,  they 
seem  to  advance  and  retire ; which, 
though  we  are  not  by  any  means  a 
superstitious  nobleman,  is  not  agreeable. 
Well ! we  get  nervous,  — more  and  more 
nervous.  We  say,  “This  is  very  fool- 
ish, but  we  can’t  stand  this  ; we  ’ll  pre- 
tend to  be  ill,  and  knock  up  somebody.” 
Well ; we  are  just  going  to  do  it,  when 
the  locked  door  opens,  and  there  comes 
in  a young  woman,  deadly  pale,  an«t 
with  long  fair  hair,  who  glides  to  the 
fire,  and  sits  down  in  the  chair  we  have 
left  there,  wringing  her  hands.  Then 
we  notice  that  her  clothes  are  wet.  Oui 
tongue  cleaves  to  the  roof  of  our  mouth, 
and  we  can’t  speak;  but  we  observe 
her  accurately.  Her  clothes  are  wet ; 
her  long  hair  is  dabbled  with  moist  mud  ; 
she  is  dressed  in  the  fashion  of  two  hun- 
dred years  ago ; and  she  has  at  her 
girdle  a bunch  of  rusty  keys.  Well  ! 
there  she  sits,  and  we  can’t  even  faint, 
we  are  in  such  a state  about  it.  Pres- 
ently she  gets  up,  and  tries  all  the  locks 
in  the  room  with  the  rusty  keys,  which 
won’t  fit  one  of  them  ; then  she  fixes 
her  eyes  on  the  portrait  of  the  cavalier 
in  green,  and  says,  in  a low,  terrible 
voice,  “ The  stags  know  it ! ” After 
that,  she  wrings  her  hands  again,  passes 
the  bedside,  and  goes  out  at  the  door. 
We  hurry  on  our  dressing-gown,  seize 
our  pistols  (we  always  travel  with  pis- 
tols), and  are  following,  when  we  find  the 
door  locked.  We  turn  the  key,  look  out 
into  the  dark  gallery  ; no  one  there.  We 
wander  away,  and  try  to  find  our  servant. 
Can’t  be  done.  We  pace  the  gallery  till 
daybreak  ; then  return  to  our  deserted 
room,  fall  asleep,  and  are  awakened  by 


478 


A CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


our  servant  (nothing  ever  haunts  him) 
and  the  shining  sun.  Well ! we  make  a 
wretched  breakfast,  and  all  the  company 
say  we  look  queer.  After  breakfast  we 
go  over  the  house  with  our  host,  and 
then  we  take  him  to  the  portrait  of  the 
cavalier  in  green,  and  then  it  all  comes 
out.  He  was  false  to  a young  house- 
keeper once  attached  to  that  family,  and 
famous  for  her  beauty,  who  drowned 
herself  in  a pond,  and  whose  body  was 
discovered,  after  a long  time,  because 
the  stags  refused  to  drink  of  the  water. 
Since  which,  it  has  been  whispered  that 
she  traverses  the  house  at  midnight 
(but  goes  especially  to  that  room  where 
the  cavalier  in  green  was  wont  to  sleep), 
trying  the  old  locks  with  the  rusty  keys. 
Well ! we  tell  our  host  of  what  we  have 
seen,  and  a shade  comes  over  his  fea- 
tures, and  he  begs  it  may  be  hushed  up  ; 
and  so  it  is.  But  it’s  all  true  ; and  we 
said  so,  before  we  died  (we  are  dead 
now)  to  many  responsible  people. 

There  is  no  end  to  the  old  houses, 
with  resounding  galleries,  and  dismal 
state-bedchambers,  and  haunted  wings 
shut  up  for  many  years,  through  which 
we  may  ramble,  with  an  agreeable  creep- 
ing up  our  back,  and  encounter  any 
number  of  ghosts,  but  (it  is  worthy  of 
remark,  perhaps)  reducible  to  a very  few 

{general  types  and  classes ; for  ghosts 
lave  little  originality,  and  “ walk”  in  a 
beaten  track.  Thus  it  comes  tor  pass 
that  a certain  room  in  a certain  old  hall, 
where  a certain  bad  lord,  baronet,  knight, 
or  gentleman  shot  himself,  has  certain 
planks  in  the  floor  from  which  the  blood 
•will  not  be  taken  out  You  may  scrape 
and  scrape,  as  the  present  owner  has 
done,  or  plane  and  plane,  as  his  father 
did,  or  scrub  and  scrub,  as  his  grand- 
father did,  or  burn  and  burn  with  strong 
acids,  as  his  great-grandfather  did,  but 
there  the  blood  will  still  be,  — no  redder 
and  no  paler,  no  more  and  no  less, 
always  just  the  same.  Thus,  in  such 
another  house  there  is  a haunted  door, 
that  never  will  keep  open ; or  another 
door  that  never  will  keep  shut ; or  a 
haunted  sound  of  a spinning-wheel,  or 
a hammer,  or  a footstep,  or  a cry,  or  a 
sigh,  or  a horse’s  tramp,  or  the  rattling 
of  a chain.  Or  else  there  is  a turret- 
clock,  which,  at  the  midnight  hour, 


strikes  thirteen  when  the  head  of  the 
family  is  going  to  die  ; or  a shadowy, 
immovable  black  carriage  which  at 
such  a time  is  always  seen  by  some- 
body, waiting  near  the  great  gates  in 
the  stable-yard.  Or  thus,  it  came  to 
pass  how  Lady  Mary  went  to  pay  a 
visit  at  a large  wild  house  in  the  Scot- 
tish Highlands,  and,  being  fatigued  with 
her  long  journey,  retired  to  bed  early, 
and  innocently  said  next  morning,  at 
the  breakfast-table,  “ How  odd,  to  have 
so  late  a party  last  night  in  this  remote 
place,  and  not  to  tell  me  of  it  before  I 
went  to  bed  ! ” Then  every  one  asked 
Lady  Mary  what  she  meant.  Then 
Lady  Mary  replied,  “ Why,  all  night 
long,  the  carriages  were  driving  round 
and  round  th^terrace,  underneath  my 
window ! ” Then  the  owner  of  the 
house  turned  pale,  and  so  did  his  Lady, 
and  Charles  Macdoodle  of  Macdoodle 
signed  to  Lady  Mary  to  say  no  more, 
and  every  one  was  silent.  After  break- 
fast, Charles  Macdoodle  told  Lady 
Mary  that  it  was  a tradition  in  the 
family  that  those  rumbling  carriages  on 
the  terrace  betokened  death.  And  so 
it  proved,  for,  two  months  afterwards, 
the  Lady  of  the  mansion  died.  And 
Lady  Mary,  who  was  a Maid  of  Honor 
at  Court,  often  told  this  story  to  the  old 
Queen  Charlotte ; by  this  token  that 
the  old  King  always  said,  “ Eh,  eh? 
What,  what?  Ghosts,  ghosts?  No 
such  thing,  no  such  thing  ! ” And  never 
left  off  saying  so  until  he  went  to  bed. 

Or,  a friend  of  somebody’s,  whom 
most  of  us  know,  when  he  was  a young 
man  at  college,  had  a particular  friend, 
with  whom  he  made  the  compact  that, 
if  it  were  possible  for  the  Spirit  to  re- 
turn to  this  earth  after  its  separation 
from  the  body,  he  of  the  twain  who  first 
died  should  reappear  to  the  other.  In 
course  of  time,  this  compact  was  for- 
gotten by  our  friend,  the  two  young 
men  having  progressed  in  life,  and 
taken  diverging  paths  that  were  wide 
asunder.  But  one  night,  many  years 
afterwards,  our  friend  being  in  the 
North  of  England,  and  staying  for  the 
night  in  an  inn  on  the  Yorkshire  Moors, 
happened  to  look  out  of  bed ; and  there, 
in  the  moonlight,  leaning  on  a bureau 
near  the  window,  steadfastly  regarding 


A CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


479 


him,  saw  his  old  college  friend  ! The 
appearance,  being  solemnly  addressed, 
replied,  in  a kind  of  whisper,  but  very 
audibly,  “ Do  not  come  near  me.  I am 
dead.  I am  here  to  redeem  my  prom- 
ise. I come  from  another  world,  but 
may  not  disclose  its  secrets  ! ” Then 
the  whole  form,  becoming  paler,  melted, 
as  it  were,  into  the  moonlight,  and  faded 
away. 

Or,  there  was  the  daughter  of  the 
first  occupier  of  the  picturesque  Eliza- 
bethan house,  so  famous  in  our  neigh- 
borhood. You  have  heard  about  her? 
No  1 Why,  she  went  out  one  summer 
evening,  at  twilight,  when  she  was  a 
beautiful  girl,  just  seventeen  years  of 
age,  to  gather  flowers  in  the  garden  ; 
and  presently  came  running,  terrified, 
into  the  hall  to  her  father,  saying,  “ O 
dear  father,  I have  met  myself ! ” He 
took  her  in  his  arms,  and  told  her  it 
was  fancy,  but  she  said,  “ O no  ! I met 
myself  in  the  broad  walk,  and  I was 
pale  and  gathering  withered  flowers, 
and  I turned  my  head,  and  held  them 
up  ! ” And  that  night,  she  died  ; and 
a picture  of  her  story  was  begun,  though 
never  finished,  and  they  say  it  is  some- 
where in  the  house  to  this  day,  with  its 
face  to  the  wall. 

Or,  the  uncle  of  my  brother’s  wife 
was  riding  home  on  horseback,  one 
mellow  evening  at  sunset,  when,  in  a 
green  lane  close  to  his  own  house,  he 
saw  a man  standing  before  him,  in  the 
very  centre  of  the  narrow  way.  “ Why 
does  that  man  in  the  cloak  stand 
there  ! ” he  thought.  “ Does  he  want 
me  to  ride  over  him  ? ” But  the  figure 
never  moved.  He  felt  a strange  sen- 
sation at  seeing  it  so  still,  but  slack- 
ened his  trot  and  rode  forward.  When 
he  was  so  close  to  it  as  almost  to  touch 
it  with  his  stirrup,  his  horse  shied,  and 
the  figure  glided  up  the  bank,  in  a cu- 
rious, unearthly  manner,  — backward, 
and  without  seeming  to  use  its  feet,  — 
and  was  gone.  The  uncle  of  my  broth- 
er’s wife,  exclaiming,  “ Good  Heaven  ! 
It’s  my  cousin  Harry,  from  Bombay  ! ” 
put  spurs  to  his  horse,  which  was  sud- 
denly in  a profuse  sweat,  and,  wonder- 
ing at  such  strange  behavior,  dashed 
round  to  the  front  of  his  house.  There 
he  saw  the  same  figure,  j ust  passing  in 


at  the  long  French  window  of  the  draw- 
ing-room opening  on  the  ground.  He 
threw  his  bridle  to  a servant,  and  has- 
tened in  after  it.  His  sister  was  sitting 
there,  alone.  “ Alice,  where ’s  my 
cousin  Harry?  ” “Your  cousin  Harry, 
John?”  “Yes.  From  Bombay.  I 
met  him  in  the  lane  just  now,  and  saw 
him  enter  here,  this  instant.”  Not  a 
creature  had  been  seen  by  any  one  ; 
and  in  that  hour  and  minute,  as  it 
afterwards  appeared,  this  cousin  died 
in  India. 

Or,  it  was  a certain  sensible  old 
maiden  lady,  who  died  at  ninety-nine, 
and  retained  her  faculties  to  the  last, 
who  really  did  see  the  Orphan  Boy  ; a 
story  which  has  often  been  incorrectly 
told,  but  of  which  the  real  truth  is 
this, — because  it  is,  in  fact,  a story  be- 
longing to  our  family,  and  she  was  a 
connection  of  our  family.  When  she 
was  about  forty  years  of  age,  and  still 
an  uncommonly  fine  woman  (her  lover 
died  young,  which  was  the  reason  why 
she  never  married,  though  she  had 
many  offers),  she  went  to  stay  at  a 
place  in  Kent,  which  her  brother,  an 
Indian  merchant,  had  newly  bought. 
There  was  a story  that  this  place  had 
once  been  held  in  trust  by  the  giiar-^ 
dian  of  a young  boy  ; who  was  himself 
the  next  heir,  and  who  killed  the  young 
boy  by  harsh  and  cruel  treatment.  She 
knew  nothing  of  that.  It  has  been 
said  that  there  was  a Cage  in  her  bed- 
room in  which  the  guardian  used  to 
put  the  boy.  There  was  no  such  thing. 
There  was  only  a closet.  She  went  to 
bed,  made  no  alarm  whatever  in  the 
night,  and  in  the  morning  said  com- 
posedly to  her  maid  when  she  came  in, 
“ Who  is  the  pretty  forlorn-looking 
child  who  has  been  peeping  out  of  that 
closet  all  night?”  The  maid  replied 
by  giving  a loud  scream,  and  instantly 
decamping.  She  was  surprised ; but 
she  was  a woman  of  remarkable 
strength  of  mind,  and  she  dressed 
herself  and  went  down  stairs,  and  clos- 
eted herself  with  her  brother.  “Now, 
Walter,”  she  said,  “ I have  been  dis- 
turbed all  night  by  a pretty,  forlorn- 
looking  boy,  who  has  been  constantly 
peeping  out  of  that  closet  in  my  room, 
which  I can’t  open.  This  is  some 


480 


A CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


trick.”  “I  am  afraid  not,  Charlotte,” 
said  he,  “ for  it  is  the  legend  of  the 
house.  It  is  the  Orphan  Boy.  What 
did  he  do?”  “He  opened  the  door 
softly,”  said  she,  “ and  peeped  out. 
Sometimes,  he  came  a step  or  two  into 
the  room.  Then  I called  to  him,  to 
encourage  him,  and  he  shrunk,  and 
shuddered,  and  crept  in  again,  and  shut 
the  door.”  “The  closet  has  no  com- 
munication, Charlotte,”  said  her  broth- 
er, “ with  any  other  part  of  the  house, 
and  it ’s  nailed  up.”  This  was  undeni- 
ably true,  and  it  took  two  carpenters 
a whole  forenoon  to  get  it  open  for 
examination.  Then  she  was  satisfied 
that  she  had  seen  the  Orphan  Boy. 
But  the  wild  and  terrible  part  of  the 
story  is,  that  he  was  also  seen  by  three 
of  her  brother’s  sons,  in  succession, 
who  all  died  young.  On  the  occasion 
of  each  child  being  taken  ill,  he  came 
home  in  a heat,  twelve  hours  before, 
and  said,  O mamma,  he  had  been 
playing  under  a particular  oak-tree,  in 
a certain  meadow,  with  a strange  boy, 
— a pretty,  forlorn-looking  boy,  who 
was  very  timid,  and  made  signs  ! From 
fatal  experience,  the  parents  came  to 
know  that  this  was  the  Orphan  Boy, 
and  that  the  course  of  that  child  whom 
he  chose  for  his  little  playmate  was 
surely  run. 

Legion  is  the  name  of  the  German 
castles,  where  we  sit  up  alone  to  wait 
for  the  Spectre,  — where  we  are  shown 
into  a room,  made  comparatively  cheer- 
ful for  our  reception,  — where  we  glance 
round  at  the  shadows  thrown  on  the 
blank  walls  by  the  crackling  fire,  — 
where  wTe  feel  very  lonely  when  the 
village  innkeeper  and  his  pretty  daugh- 
ter have  retired,  after  laying  down  a 
fresh  store  of  wood  upon  the  hearth, 
and  setting  forth  on  the  small  table 
such  supper-cheer  as  a cold  roast  ca- 
pon, bread,  grapes,  and  a flask  of  old 
Rhine  wane,  — where  the  reverberating 
doors  close  on  their  retreat,  one  after 
another,  like  so  many  peals  of  sullen 
thunder,  — and  where,  about  the  small 


hours  of  the  night,  we  come  into  the 
knowledge  of  divers  supernatural  mys- 
teries. Legion  is  the  name  of  the 
haunted  German  students,  in  whose 
society  we  draw  yet  nearer  to  the  fire, 
while  the  school-boy  in  the  corner  opens 
his  eyes  wide  and  round,  and  flies  off 
the  footstool  he  has  chosen  for  his  seat, 
when  the  door  accidentally  blows  open. 
Vast  is  the  crop  of  such  fruit,  shining 
on  our  Christmas  Tree ; in  blossom, 
almost  at  the  very  top  ; ripening  all 
down  the  boughs  ! 

Among  the  later  toys  and  fancies 
hanging  there,  — as  idle  often  and  less 
pure,  — be  the  images  once  associated 
with  the  sweet  old  Waits,  the  softened 
music  in  the  night,  ever  unalterable  ! 
Encircled  by  the  social  thoughts  of 
Christmas  time,  still  let  the  benignant 
figure  of  my  childhood  stand  unchanged ! 
In  every  cheerful  image  and  suggestion 
that  the  season  brings,  may  the  bright 
star  that  rested  above  the  poor  roof  be 
the  star  of  all  the  Christian  world  ! A 
moment’s  pause,  O vanishing  tree,  of 
which  the  lower  boughs  are  dark  to  me 
as  yet,  and  let  me  look  once  more  ! I 
know  there  are  blank  spaces  on  thy 
branches,  where  eyes  that  I have  loved 
have  shone  and  smiled,  from  which 
they  are  departed.  But,  far  above,  I 
see  the  raiser  of  the  dead  girl,  and  the 
Widow’s  Son  ; and  God  is  good  ! If 
Age  be  hiding  for  me  in  the  unseen 
portion  of  thy  downward  growth,  O 
may  I,  with  a gray  head,  turn  a child’s 
heart  to  that  figure  yet,  and  a child’s 
trustfulness  and  confidence  ! 

Now,  the  tree  is  decorated  with 
bright  merriment  and  song  and  dance 
and  cheerfulness.  And  they  are  wel- 
come. Innocent  and  welcome  be  they 
ever  held,  beneath  the  branches  of  the 
Christmas  Tree,  which  cast  no  gloomy 
shadow  ! But,  as  it  sinks  into  the 
ground,  I hear  a whisper  going  through 
the  leaves.  “ This,  in  commemoration 
of  the  law  of  love  and  kindness,  mercy 
and  compassion.  This,  in  remembrance 
of  Me  1 ” 


Cambridge  : Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  & Co. 


